


A Window in Your Heart

by LillyoftheAlley



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, I know nothing about Boston, M/M, Modern Era, Multi, Not set in Boston, Romance, Shmoop
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-13
Updated: 2017-07-21
Packaged: 2018-08-30 20:11:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 36,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8547505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LillyoftheAlley/pseuds/LillyoftheAlley
Summary: A modern AU - Nick Valentine's career and life have been sidelined by a major injury.  Ellie Perkins flees her old life and runs straight into Nick's, dragging Nate along with her.  A romance, a mystery, and lots of dialogue where most authors might put action.





	1. In the Heat I Saw You Rising From the Dirt

**Author's Note:**

> I've been writing All the King's Men (part two of Laid Bare) so much that I needed to write something lighter and happier as well. Life is hard and weird. Enjoy some silliness, some fluff, a lot of shmoop, and occasional serious stuff. 
> 
> The title is from _Graceland_. The chapter title is from _Flying Over Water_ by Jason Isbell.
> 
> Trigger Warning: There is referenced domestic violence in this chapter, but not in any others. It is not explicitly described. The victim is ok, and gets out. Spoilers are good when they preserve mental health. :)

“This is Sausage, Mr. Valentine. Sausage, say hello.”

He bent, petting the dog with his good hand, feeling the soft undercoat and the stiff guard hairs on the German Shepherd's ruff. “Sausage?” he asked. “What kinda name is Sausage?”

“It's his name, Mr. Valentine,” said the trainer firmly. “He knows it. Don't try to change it.”

“Sure, sure.” He bent a little closer. “They named you after processed meat, you poor bastard,” he stage-whispered. “I'll get you out of here in a few minutes.”

The trainer cracked a smile that made her eyes crinkle at the corners. “His brother was a white shepherd, Biscuit, and the three we worked with were Sausage, Biscuit, and Gravy. You're going to get along great. He's an amazing dog.”

The rest of the meeting went...fine. The dog was great, was no problem at all, but there were a thousand and one commands to remember, paperwork, forms to sign, a bag with heartworm preventative and vet records and all the other things that came with the price of admission. 

And at last, it was over. He escaped gratefully into the hot street, not exactly distressed from the meeting, but worn out. The air was soupy, humid and filled with pollen. If he'd still been in Boston, fall would have worked its magic by now, but he was in his third year in Atlanta, and October was an unreliable predictor of the weather down here. 

The dog stayed close, brushing against the outside of his leg as he walked. He wasn't sure this was going to work. Wasn't sure putting him in charge of an animal, or an animal in charge of him was a great idea for either of them. The boys from the station thought it was a stellar damn brainwave they'd had, of course. 

The organization had asked to come to his home to introduce the dog, but after he googled the address, he'd realized they were just under a mile away from his apartment, and had made arrangements to meet them at the organization's office. He didn't really want anyone in his apartment, didn't want anyone to see that after three years he was still half living out of boxes, that he hadn't bought more than a couch and a bed, that he had just a card table and a folding chair in the kitchenette. 

“Sad bachelor cop strikes again, avoids social engagements,” said Nick, stopping at a crosswalk. A woman next to him raised an eyebrow, and he nodded. “Talking to the dog,” he said. “He's a good listener.”

“I'll bet,” said the woman easily. “Y'all have a good one.” 

Three years, and he'd never get over how casually Southerners talked to one another. A Bostonian would have edged away from the crazy man and his enormous German Shepherd. 

Another three blocks brought him to his home. The Candler Park neighborhood had a lot of the charm of Altanta's stranger neighborhoods like Little Five Points and Cabbagetown, but without the tourism. He nodded to a mohawked man walking out of his apartment building wearing a shirt that read TAKE THAT YUPPIE SHIT BACK TO BUCKHEAD. 

There were seven apartments, two empty, and most importantly, the ground floor was a coffee house. Even more importantly, he woke up in an apartment that smelled like coffee and baking every morning. 

The door swung open as he approached, and what appeared to be a sandwich board with black slacks and food service shoes struggled through it. The sign (CANDLER BEANS: WE PROMISE NEVER TO HAVE A POETRY NIGHT) tilted crazily, and Nick dropped the leash as he moved forward to steady it, much to the surprised yelp of the barista holding it. 

Sausage waited patiently with his leash on the ground next to him while Nick helped her guide the sign to the ground. “Oh my gosh,” said the woman, who was a new face in Nick's small world. “Thanks for the hand; I really appreciate it. Murderizing the sidewalk sign on my second day would have been pretty sucky.” She stuck out her hand to shake his, and he bent to pick up Sausage's leash, leaving her with a slightly surprised expression. 

“Er,” he said. “Happy to assist, but shaking is more in the dog's repertoire than mine,” he said, and held up his right hand. 

He held up what had been his right hand, anyway, and now counted more as his right wrist. It did when he wanted to avoid the word _stump_ , anyway. 

The blood drained from her face, and her expression crumpled. “'Thanks for the haaaaaaand' oh my God,” she said. “Oh my God,” she repeated. “Oh God. I am so sorry.”

“It's no problem,” he said. “I always was a lefty, anyway.” He looped the leash over his right arm, and pulled open the door for her. 

She hesitated before going through it. “Sir. I am so sorry. I'm really, really sorry. Can I buy you a coffee?”

“Sure,” he said. “If it'll make you feel better, darlin'. I'm really not upset, though.” He shooed her through the door, and she slunk in. Miserable embarrassment radiated from her every movement, but she plucked up her courage, straightened her back, and guided him to the counter by the arm. It surprised him; people tended to avoid contact with him more now than they used to, as though he was breakable. As though it might be catching. 

“What can I get for you?” she asked, picking up a large cup, and a sharpie. 

“Coffee,” he said. 

“With...?” she asked. 

“Coffee,” he replied, and she smiled. 

“A purist. Cool.” She tossed the marker into a little tray, and poured him the coffee, and rung herself up. “No cream, no sugar?”

“Got it in one.” He looped the leash over his arm again, and Sausage immediately sat. “Come to think of it, if you've got a bowl back there, some water for the dog would be nice.”

“Sure, sure!” she said. She started to reach out to pet the dog, and hesitated. “He's working, isn't he?” she asked. 

“Yep,” said Nick. “We just met, though, so we're keeping our relationship professional for now.”

“How long have you had him?” she asked, adding a lid to the coffee. 

“It's, what, about two thirty? We met at noon.”

“Oh, wow,” she said, and smiled. “I bet he'll be amazing. What's his name?” She was a good looking woman once she relaxed. Her brown hair was swept into a rockabilly updo with some sort of tubular curl at the front that he didn't have a name for. She wore black from head to toe like all the baristas at Candler Beans, and little silver skulls dangled from her ears. Tattooed blue roses peeked out from under the scoop neck of her t-shirt. All of the details got filed away quickly, as though he were back to writing down witness descriptions. Bowed upper lip. Square face. Brown eyes. Shorter than average. 

“Sausage,” he said. “Apparently his brothers in arms are Biscuit and Gravy. Poor things.” He nodded toward a corner table next to the bookcases. “Don't suppose you could bring that bowl of water over there, could ya?”

“Sure, sure,” she said. She pulled out a plastic bowl, filled a paper cup, and followed him. 

“Sit. Stay,” he said to Sausage, and the dog's butt hit the ground immediately. Nick laid the leash down as an experiment. 

“Do you come in often?” she asked, setting the bowl on the ground. 

“Yep,” he said. 

“Live nearby?” she asked. 

“Yep.” He took a sip of his coffee and sighed. It wasn't that he wanted her gone, exactly, but it had already been a long day, and she was clearly still set on repairing hurt feelings that weren't actually hurt. 

“Cool. I live upstairs, actually,” she said. “Moved in last weekend.”

He raised a brow. “Good to know I've got a new neighbor.”

“You... live upstairs?” she asked cautiously. 

“Yep,” he said for what was probably the umpteenth time. 

“Oh,” she said. “Well. I'm glad I didn't embarrass the hell out of myself to just any customer, then. I'm going to go hit my head against the wall of the back room. It's been swell meeting you, Mr. . . . ?”

“Nick. Nick Valentine.” He nodded to her. 

“Right. I'm Ellie Perkins. Nice to. Nice to meet you.”

And with that she nearly sprinted back to the counter, and within a few minutes she had swapped out counter duty for dishwashing in the back. He listened carefully, and was almost certain he heard rather than imagined a soft _thud_ a few seconds later. 

“Go ahead,” he said to Sausage, and the dog flopped down to drink water from his bowl.

“Well,” he muttered. “That was mildly horrifying.”

 

* * * * *

 

She was on shift again the next morning, working a turn-around, and before Nick gave his order, she grabbed a cup and filled it with coffee. “Regular order?” she asked. 

“Three or four times a day,” he said. By his feet, Sausage sat patiently. 

“No coffee maker at home?” she asked. “Why bother when you're right here, huh?”

“You got it,” he said. “Muffin.”

Her neatly-arched brows rose. “'Muffin?' Did you just call me...”

He tapped the bakery case. “Er. I'd like a muffin. My morning order is coffee and a muffin.”

This time instead of turning white, she turned red. “Banana nut or blueberry?” she whispered.

“Banana nut,” he said. He shifted, uncomfortable, and Sausage butted his head against Nick's leg. 

“Huh,” said Nick. “Interesting.” He scratched behind the dog's ears, and the dog turned to let him access his ears better. 

“So, uh,” she said, ringing his order. “What sort of work do you do?”

“I was a cop,” he said. “Now I'm not.” 

“Four thirteen,” she said miserably. He handed her a five and left without his receipt or change, desperate for a cigarette.

“Thank you,” she whispered at his back, but he pretended he couldn't hear.

 

* * * * *

The third day, she was off.

 

* * * * *

The fourth day Kim took his order in the morning, but Ellie was back in the afternoon, and apparently still determined to make small talk. “How's it going with the new dog?” she asked. 

“He drools in his sleep and he hogs the sheets,” said Nick. “And he doesn't beg so much as wish loudly with body language when you eat a sandwich.” He paused, then said, “But he also keeps the apartment from being quiet, picks up things I drop, and curls up with me when I read. So that's nice.”

“Sounds like you two are settling in,” she said, handing him his cup. Something was wrong with her makeup, but he couldn't put his finger on it. That pointy thing at the corner of the eye was probably the problem, he decided.

“I think so.”

“Whatcha reading?”

“ _The Road_ ,” he said, and took his first sip of coffee.

She stared at him, all big eyed sympathy. “Do you. . . need someone to talk to?” she said, and he choked.

“I gotta go smoke,” he said.

 

* * * * *

 

The sixth day she remained safely occupied putting up Halloween decorations while he ordered and drank his coffee. He sat feeding Sausage a bagel with bacon and cheese while she laughed with her co-workers. 

She managed not to drop anything, offend a customer, or peeve a coworker while they ate. He must be a special project of hers, he decided. 

 

* * * * *

 

The seventh day he heard Kim tell Andre that Ellie had called out sick. 

And on the seventh night, his life changed.

 

* * * * * 

 

He wasn't even sure he'd heard a knock until he saw Sausage's ears swivel toward the door. “As of someone gently rapping,” he muttered, and pushed himself off the couch. Sausage followed for a pace or two, then circled around him to press his nose against the door, a gesture Nick was oddly touched by. The dog's hackles didn't rise, but he made a whining sound that sounded distressed to Nick, as unfamiliar as he still was with dog ownership. 

“Hello?” he called, easing the lock off.

“Mr. Valentine?” said a voice that was so soft he didn't recognize it for a moment. 

“Ellie?” he asked, and opened the door.

His blood ran cold. 

The rockabilly rolls and wings were all askew in her hair, and her makeup was smeared around her mouth and runny around her eyes. Her bottom lip was busted, and she held a hand cradled against her stomach. “Jesus!” he blurted out, and she cringed, darting her eyes down the hallway. 

“I didn't know where to go,” she said.

He opened the door wide. “Get inside,” he said. “Let's get you looked at.” He locked the door swiftly behind her.

She was barefoot, and she wore jeans and a t-shirt that proclaimed her love for the Ramones. And that was it.

“Sorry,” he said. “I haven't really unpacked...” He cleared the mail off the spare chair, and gestured for her to sit down. 

She sat. She was shaking, he saw, trembling from head to toe. He got her a glass of icewater without speaking, a shot of bourbon, then a bag of ice wrapped in paper towels for her lip. The dog trotted over and sat almost on top of her feet, leaning against her.

They filled up five minutes without talking. He gave her a soapy rag for her makeup and a bowl of warm water to rinse it in. She drank the icewater and the bourbon, and he refilled the first, but not the second. He watched her curl her toes over and over into the rug, saw her toenails were a freshly painted acid green. 

He gave her his hand, let her place her hand in his, which she did slowly and reluctantly. The inside of her hand and arm was burned, a long streak of blistered red that stretched from the heel of her hand to halfway down her arm. “Curling iron,” he said, breaking the silence. 

“Yeah,” she said. “He... he...”

“Swung for your face, and you threw your arm in front of it,” he said. “It's called a defensive wound.”

“I bet you saw this kinda stuff all the time,” she said, and laughed bitterly. “Stupid girls like me who got hurt.” 

“No,” he said. “I was a homicide detective. I saw the girls who weren't like you and didn't get out.”

She lowered the ice pack onto her arm, and her breath caught. “I'm not going back,” she said. “Not tonight, not ever.”

“Good. Still gonna feel that way in the morning, El?”

“Tomorrow morning and every morning,” she said. “That motherfucker. Nobody's ever hurt me before. That ass, that son of a--” a muscle jumped in her jaw. 

“Never?” he said. 

She shook her head and winced. He stood again and got her a bottle of pills from the cabinet. “Hydrocodone. If you aren't comfortable with it, I've got regular old aspirin, too.”

“Thanks,” she said. She took one of the pills, broke it in half, gave the other half back. “It's there if I need it, right?” she said simply. 

“Was it a boyfriend?”

“Ex,” she said. “I broke up with him this morning. He hit me earlier in the week, said it was an accident. I decided this morning that it couldn't have been, and that he's a prick, so I broke up with him. I shoulda done it in public. In a restaurant or something. Because he swung at me with the curling iron, and popped me in the face. He finally got drunk enough a little while ago that I could ease out the door.”

There was a lot of time missing from that account, hours of misery and bargaining, pleading and crying, Nick imagined. “I'm going to ask you a couple of questions, okay, darlin'? Some of them are the same ones the cops would ask.”

“Shoot,” she said, and patted her face dry with his kitchen towel. 

“Do you need a hospital? That burn...?”

“Is just a bigger version of the ones I've given myself by accident,” she said firmly. “No. No hospital.”

“Were you--”

But she shook her head before he could finish the question. “No. Nothing like that.”

“Thank God,” he said. “Cops?”

“Maybe in the morning,” she told him. “Not tonight. I'm too shaky, too panicky. I'd just get worse with a bunch of strangers asking me shit I don't want to talk about.”

“Do you have family in town?” he asked cautiously. 

“No family except overseas in the military. A few cousins. Parents are dead.” She swallowed convulsively. “I don't want to go to a shelter, Mr. Valentine.”

“Nick,” he said. “Stay here. You can take my bed, and I'll take the couch.”

“Are you sure? I've spent the whole week being accidentally awful to you and. . .”

“Ellie,” he said. “Stay the night. Stay tomorrow night and the next if you want.”

The corner of her mouth twitched downward as she attempted to hold back tears, and she nodded, a quick, jerky movement. “Nick,” she said. “Thank you. Thank you.”

She couldn't sleep, so he flipped channels on his dusty tv until he found reruns of classic gameshows. They made a game out of spotting the most ridiculous fashion trends on the screen, from bouffants to mullets. Sausage curled up next to her, flopping his big head into her lap as though they were old friends, wagging his tail lazily every time she petted him.

She dropped off to sleep just short of four in the morning, leaning against his shoulder. He walked her to bed in a half-stupor, and to his profound relief she slept from the moment he got her into bed. 

Sleep was a longer time coming for him as he strained for the sound of a sleeping monster rising. 

 

* * * * * 

 

Morning arrived with a banging on his door. Sausage darted in from where he had spent the night curled next to Ellie, a low growl starting in his throat. 

“Sit!” he said. “Stay. Good boy.” He stalked toward the door, rubbing sleep from his eyes. For the first time since he moved in, he wished for a peephole in the door. 

“Yeah?” he called harshly. 

“Open the goddamn door, Valentine! I know she's in there. ELLIE. Can you hear me, baby? Get your ass out here!”

Ellie appeared in the doorway of the living room, eyes wide and still slightly puffy and rimmed with the remains of purple eyeliner. Nick entertained a small, brief fantasy of charging into the hallway and beating ten kinds of hell out of the son of a bitch who'd hurt Ellie. 

Instead, he did the smart thing. “Call this number and tell Jackson what's going on,” he whispered, fishing his cell phone out of his pocket, and cuing it up to one of his contacts. “He lives about five minutes away.”

She took the phone in surprisingly steady hands and called, hurrying back into his bedroom. 

“You've got me at a disadvantage,” he called. “You know my name, and I don't know yours.” He kept his voice friendly, used a conversational tone he'd found to usefully disarming in his previous life. 

“Uh, Connor,” said the voice. 

“Listen, Connor. I know you're angry, but you aren't making sense. You can't yell and cuss at a girl to make her fear you. You have to get her to respect you, instead.”

“That's what I'm fukkin' doin',” said Connor. 

“Respect and fear aren't the same. You can't make someone love you out of fear,” said Nick. Ellie popped her head back in and nodded to him. He gave her a quick nod in return. 

“She already loves me,” said Connor. “We're supposed to be together.”

“You hit her with a curling iron,” said Nick. “I'm betting she's got some suspicions that wedding bells ain't exactly in your future.”

There was silence that seemed somehow sullen to Nick's ears. 

“Baby,” said Connor. “Baby, come on. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you.”

Ellie's eyes narrowed. “You didn't scare me,” she called. “You made me mad. I am, in fact, leaving-you-for-good-mad.”

“For this guy?” said Connor. “Fuck, baby. I thought he was some kinda cripple.”

“What a class act,” muttered Nick.

“I think he's still drunk,” she replied. “Usually he hides being a vile waste of carbon better than this.”

His lips twitched into a half-smile. “I hope so. Was worried about your taste in men for a second there.”

For an eighth of a second, he thought she was about to burst into tears, but instead she chortled. “I thought I was doing really well just to find one that doesn't use Axe body spray.”

“You're setting your sights too low, darlin'. Aim for the stars and land on the moon next time.”

“What the fuck are you two talking about?” came an enraged bellow. The smile slid from Nick's mouth in an instant as Connor slammed an elbow or a boot into the door, bowing the frame. Sausage barked once, a deep noise that carried what Nick heard as a strong message: I am enormous and I will bite for my people. The dog pressed himself hard against Nick's leg, and Nick was strangely reassured. Which, he supposed, was the point.

“Connor,” he called. “This is not a situation that gets better when you add a forcible entry charge. Think about this for a minute.” 

But the boot to the door came again and this time there was a crack of wood.

“Oh hell,” said Ellie.

“Connor,” he called warningly. “There's a huge dog on this side of the door who has loved Ellie since he met her. I would really think twice about this.”

“I'm going to shoot your fucking dog, then you, and then her!” Connor snarled. 

“Wow,” said Ellie. “You don't own a gun.”

A third bang of impact, and the doorframe splintered further. 

“POLICE! FREEZE!” 

“Jackson,” Nick breathed. “Took you long enough.” 

There was silence outside for a moment, and he imagined he could hear Connor thinking, hear him trying to figure a way out. But then Nick was able to listen to the familiar patter of an arrest, of a suspect making vague excuses for himself. 

Only then did he sit down, only then did he allow himself to shake, did he allow himself to pull the dog close and run his hand over his fur. Ellie sat down next to him, put a hand on his knee tentatively. “Thank you,” she said, so softly he could hardly hear it over the dog's soft whines of concern. “Thank you.” 

 

* * * * *

The process from there was relatively routine, if unknown to Nick from the civilian side of the table. Handcuffs, backup, an arrest, witness statements, photographs, and so forth took up the remainder of the morning. Ellie's arm got looked at by a paramedic, who declared it okay for her to follow up with her regular doctor on Monday. 

And in the wake of the arrest, baristas started arriving at the end of the hallway, hovering with intent to eavesdrop.

But in the end, they were the only two left—three, he corrected himself, still petting Sausage.

“Earned your kibble, Sausage. Gonna get you a bacon sandwich for dinner tonight.” 

“He isn't for your hand, is he?” said Ellie suddenly. 

“He's also for my hand. Picks things up for me.”

“He's a PTSD dog,” said Ellie.

“Yep,” said Nick, not looking over at her.

“He's kind of amazing,” said Ellie, and abruptly, took his hand and brought it to her lips to kiss. “You're kind of amazing.” She let go, and her eyes darted away as embarrassment took hold.

“You stayed pretty calm, yourself,” he said. “I'm impressed. Most people wouldn't.” He reached over and took her hand, giving it a squeeze. 

“You're shaky,” she said. “We should get some food in your system. And something sweet, give your blood sugar a little boost. And a coffee, because you must be like a quart low.”

“All good ideas,” he said. They were part of his regular advice to victims who found themselves frightened and shaken. Why hadn't he thought to apply them to himself?

She rose, an easy, elegant motion, and walked to his fridge. “So, uh, condiments,” she said. “And scary Chinese. Three bottles of Sriracha at different levels. No sweet tea.” She closed the fridge in what he imagined to be a mildly reproachful manner. He heard rummaging, and she came back eventually with a glass of water and a few packets of saltines. “Here. This'll be a start, especially if you get a weird stomach when you're stressed. I do.”

“Thanks, doll,” he said. He ate methodically, finishing off the crackers in a few minutes, and while he ate she fiddled with her phone, texting someone. 

“'Doll,'” she repeated. She sounded pleased. “Ok. I ordered some food up from the cafe next door. They'd be too nosy if I ordered from downstairs,” she said. “I'm gonna grab my wallet from my place. You'll be okay while I'm gone? You still look like you're going to fall out.”

“If I do, I think the dog has something for that in his bag of tricks. Leave the door open if it'll make you feel better.”

“Back in a flash,” she said, and matched word to deed. She came back carrying her purse, a pair of shoes, and a small duffel bag less than three minutes later. 

“I had already packed,” she said. “Just the essentials. I just didn't have a chance to grab my stuff when he fell asleep. Didn't want to wake him.”

He wondered what might be essential to her. Clothes, jewelry, makeup? Or something stranger? A childhood stuffed animal, family photos, an heirloom from grandma?

He didn't ask. It wasn't any of his damn business.

“Smart girl,” he said. “Most people don't know to make a bug-out bag when they're about to leave.”

“Yeah,” she said. “If I'd had an idea where I was going once I left I would've been doing even better.”

“You did great,” he said firmly. “You did everything right. Ran to a safe place, got help, let the police do their job. Found me some saltines.” He fed the last one to the dog, who spent a few happy minutes whuffling microscopic or imagined crumbs off the floor.

“What now?” she said. “Other than a shower. I really want a shower once we've had a chance to eat.”

“We'll head down to the police station in a few and get a temporary restraining order. Get Harvey to come over and repair my door, change the locks on your place--”

“Other than to clean things out, I don't want to go back there,” she said. “I can't tell you why, exactly. But I don't.”

“That's reasonable, doll. Totally reasonable. Stay here as long as you want.”

“Wha-ho. Wait. Are you sure?” she said. “Nick, you don't have to-”

“Try it out for a week,” he said. “If you like it, and we get along—which I suspect we will, all of last week to the contrary—then stay. I'll get Harvey to add you to the lease. I'm certain he'll go ahead and break your old one considering the circumstances. He's a good guy.”

“ _You're_ a good guy. One of the good guys. The best.” And with that, she burst into tears.

That was, of course, the moment the food arrived. 

Ellie shuffled to the door and opened it. The girl on the other side's eyes widened. “Are you ok?” she whispered. “Should I call--?”

“No! Oh my God. No. This is the guy who helped me. The cops got my ex boyfriend an hour ago.” She paid for the sandwiches and put everything on the table. “Bless you, hon. Thank you for caring.”

Nick watched, amazed, as the two strangers hugged, brought together in solidarity by one moment of caring for another human being. 

And the shaking stopped.


	2. Into Something Good

Three weeks later found Nick Valentine's apartment a changed landscape. 

The first change was Tuesday, when brownies or pixies or grocery gnomes deposited food in his refrigerator. Green things that weren't iceburg lettuce. Cheese that didn't come pre-sliced or individually wrapped. Wheat germ, for whatever damn reason. He expected quinoa to appear, but was slightly uncertain what it looked like so he could keep an eye out. He was, he tried to explain to Ellie, a sandwiches and take-out kind of man. “You just think that because you were until now,” she told him. Which didn't make a bit of sense, but she went back to reading a magazine like it did, so that was settled, he supposed.

But then she cooked dinner, and it was full of tiny mysterious squashes, some kind of crumbly cheese, and tomato jerky. And it was amazing.

Ellie laughed until she cried when he said tomato jerky, but however much she called them sun dried tomatoes or whatever else, he would call them like he saw them. 

All of his unpacked boxes huddled in a corner with a little tablecloth tossed over them by Wednesday. They'd been dusted. And sorted by label. And Ellie had promised to help him finish unpacking whenever he was ready. He wasn't sure if it was a promise or a threat. 

Thursday, they moved all of her possessions into his spare room. She had a bed, a dresser, a vanity, and a little bedside table. She had more t-shirts with bands on them than he'd ever seen in his life, and full range of mysterious and brightly colored cosmetics with names like NYX and E.L.F. She'd shrugged when he asked why her mascara was named after a Greek goddess of the night, and had asked him why Mars bars were named after a god of war. 

Her kitchen table, a little black and white checkered formica thing with red vinyl-seated chairs came last, and his battered old card table disappeared into...somewhere. He harbored a secret fantasy that she had taken it to a nice farm in the country where it could roam around with the other card tables. 

Friday, flowers appeared in his kitchen. Big, brightly colored daisies. 

Tuesday of the next week, the kitchen windows grew window boxes full of herbs and things. 

By the end of the second week, the apartment had gotten a top to bottom cleaning. He promised her he vacuumed once a week, twice now that there was a dog. She said something about baseboards and clicked her tongue. He gave up and helped, taking whatever suggestions she had to give about scrubbing and wiping.

She never asked what was in all of the boxes, or why he hadn't unpacked after three years. She regarded his past as his own to volunteer, it seemed, and only showed interest in making measurable contributions to his quality of life. 

She sewed, he discovered, and turned out a range of pillows in the third week, cheerful yellow halfsie curtains for the kitchen, and a slightly absurd number of stuffed toys for the dog, along with a big dog pillow-bed for the living room. 

Sausage, for his part, seemed to love her, love the toys, love the occasional cubes of cheese or pieces of bacon that came his way. He seemed to think Ellie was an angel brought to Earth for his enjoyment and betterment. 

Nick viewed all of the goings-on with a bemused tolerance. He didn't really mind living in a minefield of old boxes, and he didn't really mind the colorful pillows that now lounged around his couch. He appreciated that she asked before making big changes (“I've got a pretty nice kitchen table. Should we swap out yours for mine? Cool, thanks.”) and also appreciated that she didn't ask before making small ones. He liked the advent of cooking in his house, was glad that she didn't criticize his old way of living, and liked her company on his morning jog with the dog. 

He still had plenty of time alone. She worked full time downstairs, and was pleasingly self-sufficient most of the time she was home. They sat around reading, went for jogs, and ate dinner together, but she sensed somehow his need for a certain amount of solitude, and had plenty of her own interests to sustain her. It kept him from feeling quite so much like her pet project. 

Right up until the conversation about his hand. 

 

* * * * *

 

“Can I ask you something personal?” 

“You can ask,” said Nick. “Doesn't mean I'll answer.” It seemed like a dandy time to ask something personal. He always struck up personal conversations with people while they were leaning over the sink, shaving. He looked over at Ellie, who stood holding her black tennis shoes. He'd not thought to close the door to the bathroom, had figured even if she walked by she'd keep walking. 

“Fair enough. Why no prosthetic hand?”

He blinked, glancing up at the mirror. Gold-hazel eyes stared back at him, darted her way, and back again. He tapped his razor in the sink and ran water over it. 

“Tried a few. Didn't like them much. Didn't want to be a grizzled old cop with a damn hook. Stationary hands didn't do much other than look weird. What I really wanted was far out of my price range.” He wiped with a towel, rinsed his face, and wiped again. “Insurance didn't want to cover a myoelectric prosthetic. And even if it had, they aren't perfect solutions by any stretch.”

“Myoelectric,” Ellie repeated, trying out the word. “How much do they run?”

“Why do you ask?”

“I want to help,” she said. And it was such a simple thing, such an open, honest answer that he almost wanted her to, just for her sake. 

Almost.

“That's sweet,” he said, and meant it.

And then he ever so gently closed the door. 

 

* * * * *

 

Dinner was takeout for the first time since the grocery gnomes came to visit. She sat curled up in his little recliner with her laptop and a box of takeout noodles, eating lo mien and watching videos with her headphones in. 

He would _not_ apologize. It was his hand—stump--his life, his decision, and his business. No matter how sweet she was trying to be, she didn't have any place trying to change him, trying to make him better, or more normal, or happier. He didn't have to be normal to accept his lot, didn't have to be happy to be content. 

Sausage whined an alert, pushing his way into his lap. The damn dog could smell when he was worried, Nick imagined. Hell, maybe that was the actually the answer. They said dogs could smell fear, could they smell anxiety as well? Did the dog hear his heart rate go up, feel him start to tense? He ran his hand down the dog's side, patting the sturdy flank until the whooshing in his ears stopped. 

“Nick?” said Ellie. She was standing above him all of a sudden, holding the laptop. “Can I show you something?”

“Sure,” he said wearily. “But unless you're about to show me a miracle, I'm going to say no.”

“Okay,” she said softly.

She sat, carefully moving Sausage's tail out of the way, and passed him the laptop. “Hit play,” she said.

He did.

And watched a nine year old girl get a prosthetic made from plans off the internet. 

“How-?” he began. 

“Shh,” she said, and pushed the video ahead a few minutes. 

“--replacing the need for costly myoelectric prosthetics for many individuals,” said the man on the screen. “3D printing lets us print and assemble designs for a fraction of the cost of even traditional prosthetics.”

He pushed stop. The air was charged somehow, and he rubbed his hand over his face, considering. “I didn't know about these.”

“It's relatively new. Even just a few years ago, there weren't a lot of people doing these. Now there are tons of plans on the internet, depending on what your needs are.” She closed the laptop, a careful, controlled motion. “If you're interested, I know someone who might be able to help. And if you're like 'screw off, Ellie,' that's fine, too. And I won't be mad. And I hope you won't either. But I do hope you'll at least meet with the guy I know.”

She was babbling a little. He decided he kind of liked it. 

“I'll meet him. Bu--”

“Oh my God!” She threw her arms around his neck, and gave him a peck on the cheek. “I'm so excited for you, Nick!”

“Don't get too excited,” he said, but had to force a frown. “It's just a meeting. Who knows how expensive--”

“About fifty dollars.”

“You're kidding,” he said flatly.

“In materials, yeah. And the plans are on the internet for free.”

“And your friend can assemble it?”

“My friend,” she said firmly, “can make _anything_.”

 

* * * * *

 

“What the hell is a Makerspace, anyway?” asked Nick. “Other than the obvious part, which is all the way out in Decatur.”

Ellie patted his arm. “All the way in Decatur?! How will we ever make the fifteen minute journey? Oh, MARTA, my bad, my bad.” She gestured around the train, but flashed him one of those brilliant toothpaste commercial smiles she came up with from time to time. 

“I don't know. It just seems like a long shot. I know you're excited, but...”

“Oh my gosh,” she said. “You're trying to talk it down in case it's disappointing. Then you won't get hurt.” 

He didn't look at her face, but instead petted Sausage behind the ears. “Doll, I've lost a lot of things. Hope might just be one of them.” He wished, abruptly, that he was wearing a hat so he could pull it down over his eyes, or maybe wished for hair that he could hide behind like a teenager. He touched his short, sandy hair ruefully.

“Well,” she said. “We're going to prove you wrong, aren't we Sausage? Aren't we!” She ruffled the hair on top of Sausage's head.

“Well,” he said. At least you're just baby talking the dog and not me. Mostly.” 

She took his hand. “Nick. This is going to be amazing. And if it isn't, you haven't lost anything. It's a no-brainer to gamble fifty bucks on something that might make your life so much easier and you so much happier.” She grinned. “Plus they look kinda bad-ass.”

“I've been looking for a way to look more like the Terminator.”

“Psh. You're way handsomer than Aaaahnold.” She stood as the train pulled to a stop, and he followed her as she made her way to the door. 

“Arnold is a lot more jacked than I'll ever be.”

“Too jacked,” she said. “Not my type.”

“What is your ty--” He hesitated. “Shit. I'm sorry.”

“Uhm, yeah.” She squeezed his hand. “It's no big. And it's one little thing balanced against all the weird shit I said to you when we met.” She shrugged. “I like people to need me for something. Which Connor surely did, because he didn't have a brain in his pretty head. I thought he was some sort of misunderstood artist, when actually he was just a prick.”

_Is that why you're hanging around me?_ The words stuck in the back of his throat. He wasn't sure who it would be more hurtful to if he said them, and so there they sat, burning a hole somewhere in his self-esteem.

She didn't let go of his hand until Sausage got between them, the dog clearly oblivious to the concept of beautiful women staying close and how it was a positive thing. Probably the animal just liked them both and wanted to be near them. Damn it.

It was a short three blocks to the Makerspace (Making Decatur's Future, read the sign, below which someone had spray painted BEWARE KILLER ROBOTS), which was just enough time to settle on the more immediate panic of the prosthetic hand meeting versus the Ellie's intentions panic. She pushed open the door, and they were greeted at the front desk by a young man with the beard and glasses Nick would have imagined for anyone inside the doors. 

“Three o'clock appointment with our resident jack of all trades? Cool,” said the kid. He looked like he was freshly into college, and up close, the beard was still a little spotty in places. 

He took them back to a room with floor-to-ceiling brightly colored storage bins and bookcases, a set of sturdily built tables, and three mysterious boxes that glowed slightly from within. 

Sitting at the computer was a man with shaggy, dark brown hair. He had broad, muscled shoulders, and a boy-next-door face – handsome, open, and eyes that crinkled at the corners when he smiled. 

Which he did, of course, right away. 

“Ellie!” he said, sweeping her up into a hug, and giving her a little spin. “You never come visit!”

“Naaate! I'm here now,” she protested, grabbing him by the arms, and pushing away to get a better look at him. “I like the beard scruff,” she teased. “Very sexy young professor. I can dig it.”

“Thought I'd start putting on my winter coat.” Brown eyes crinkled at the corner again as he turned to Nick. “You must be Nick Valentine! Ellie said you were tall, dark, and handsome. Understatement of the year. Have a seat! Can I get you some coffee, or a soda? We've got a few minutes while the printer finishes up.”

“Er. Hi, Nate. Nice to meet you, too,” he said, slightly flabberghasted at how much of the room Nate seemed to fill just by being present. “I'll pass on the drink. And—printer?”

“Sure, sure,” said Nate, guiding Ellie to a seat as well. “The MakerBot is putting the finishing touches on your hand right now. I figured, what the hell. Might as well go ahead and print one, and if you're not a fan of the color, we'll print another and you can wear this one until we get it together for you. Partial palm amputation, right? We've printed a few others, here and there. We need to get the word out better about what we can do.” He checked something on one of the computers. “It's finishing up. I set it up last night to be going all night and day. Someone's pretty much always here.”

“So... This is what you do?” asked Nick. 

“Well,” said Nate. “It's one of the things we do. We're a collaborative shared space where people can come together to use communal tools for their art, design, electronics, etc. Me, I do a little of everything, but mainly I'm a welder. I make installation art and set it up all over the country, and this place is my studio for that. But I also do some blacksmithing at craft fairs in the spring and fall. So... Kind of?” 

“Huh,” said Nick. “I like it. Used to do a little tinkering, myself, before my work took up all my time.”

“Ellie said you used to be a police officer?” said Nate carefully. 

“Police Detective,” said Nick. Damned if he knew why he was volunteering the information. But Nate was doing him... not just a favor, something decidedly more. And besides that, there was something about the man that radiated helpfulness. Nick had known a detective like that, and he was a damn fine investigator. People wanted to tell the man things, wanted to reward his helpfulness with their own. 

He'd been told once that he was similar, that he came across as the most honest man in the world. She'd smiled when she said it, had smiled when she told him he was as good and honest as she'd thought he was when she met him. That was before, of course.

That was before.

“Got hurt in the line of duty,” he said, and watched Ellie go still. “Got shot. Wound went septic. Lost the hand that way.”

“Jesus,” said Ellie. “Nick. . .” 

“It's. . .” and what was he supposed to say that wouldn't be a lie. He'd gotten too used to lying, to telling people he was fine, he was alright, he was coping. “It's not something I talk about much,” he said. “Had a therapist for a while, but she said if I wasn't going to cooperate, there wasn't a lot she could do for me.” He shrugged. “It was about a year ago.” He flexed his knuckles, popping them so loudly that Ellie and Nate jumped. “Gave up after a few appointments with the prosthetic clinic, too. What they had to offer was either far out of my price range, or. . . not what I wanted. What I needed. Rather have a damn stump than a mannequin hand.”

Sausage pushed his way between Nick's knees. “PTSD dog,” said Nick. “Ten times smarter than any dog I've ever known before.” He slid his hand over the dog's head, cupping his cheek and scratching. “Good boy,” he said softly. 

A machine dinged softly, and Nate stood, returning after a few moments with a box of parts. “I'm going to talk while I work if you don't mind, Nick?” 

And Nate did. He talked about people, mainly, people he'd worked with as an artist, people he'd met at Burning Man, at festivals all over the southeast. A girl with a heart defect who he'd made an anatomical heart sculpture for her garden; an aging hippy who'd wanted a skeletal volkswagen bug built in front of his mini mansion outside the perimeter. 

People came to life in Nate's stories, and Nick was left with the impression of having found a man who cared exactly as much as he seemed to. Ellie glowed when Nate talked, something he couldn't exactly begrudge her. 

Or maybe it was the hand that made her glow. It was gunmetal grey plastic, and Nate popped articulated fingers together as though he'd done it a thousand times, hands moving as he talked. He strung monofilament wire, added padding, and almost too soon, it was done. 

“It does look a little Terminator-y, doesn't it?” asked Ellie, and for the first time he heard doubt in her voice. 

“I kinda like it,” said Nick, and Nate grinned. 

“They're actually pretty cool, huh?” He turned the completed hand over, showing Nick how it worked. “Your wrist goes here, this little bit actuates, and the thumb is repositionable. Pretty simple, but pretty slick.”

He put it on, tightened the straps, and rotated his arm. It felt... okay. 

And then he flexed his fingers, balling his fist, and Ellie gasped. The dog pushed against her, a calming, heavy presence, and she pulled Sausage close, wrapping her arms around him for an instant before letting him go back to Nick. 

“Hot damn,” said Nick. Carefully, he picked up a fat marker Nate had left on the table, then put it down again. He picked up Nate's water bottle. Then the box all the parts had been in. 

“And people just... put these designs online for anyone?” said Nick. 

“Yep. All for free. Materials total about fifty bucks, but frankly I take payment in the form of dinner and a beer.” 

“Done,” said Nick. “You free tonight? El and I are.”

“I'm always free when handsome cyborgs and beautiful baristas come calling,” said Nate. “Lemme clean all this up, and we can go before the crowds get big. You down for sushi? It's dollar night.”

“You can get all the sushi your heart desires,” said Nick. He picked up the water bottle and put it down again. Then once more for good measure. “Fancy rolls, dollar stuff, just save a kirin ichiban for me.”

“Fancy rolls! Be still my heart. This place does this thing called a mountain roll. It's dope as fuck,” said Nate. He tidied away the string, monofilament, and other odd bits into various bins. “All good. Take me to sushi-land, big spender.”

Ellie took him by the hand as they left, and this time she took his right hand.

 

* * * * * 

 

It was a good night. Mostly.

Ellie gleefully pounced on his wallet when he was carded (“Oh my God!” she'd squealed, examining his driver's license. “That picture is to die for!”) and had been delighted to discover his birthday was Halloween. “Four days!” she said. “Nick, why didn't you say?”

“Because... I didn't?” he said. 

Nate pointed chopsticks at him. “We're taking you out then,” he said. “What do you like? Greek, Ethiopian, Italian, steakhouse, what?”

“OH my God!” said Ellie again. “You're three holidays in one – Halloween, Valentine's, and Christmas.”

“Lucky me,” said Nick, but there was no malice in it. “And you don't have to take me out. I've kept my birthday pretty low key for a few years. Good bottle of whiskey and a new book. Happy birthday, Nick.”

“Nate. We have to save him.” She re-folded the wallet, and stopped at the picture opposite his license. “Who's the pretty lady?” she asked, and took another sip of beer.

“Jenny,” he said, and plucked the wallet out of her hand with his prosthetic one. 

“Who iiiis?” she said playfully.

“She was my fiancee,” said Nick. “She died.”

And Nate and Ellie froze. “Jesus,” said Ellie. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to... mean to pry.”

He wiped his good hand across his face. “Doll. It's okay. It's been about three and a half years. It's okay,” he said again, trying to convince himself as much as them. 

Sausage bumped his thigh under the table, and Nick reached down to pet him absently. “Brain cancer. Stage 4—it's called a glioblastoma. She lived about two months after it was diagnosed.”

“Nick,” said Ellie. “I'm so sorry.”

“We've all got some kinda tragedy, sweetheart,” he said. He nodded to Nate, who hesitated, and nodded back, then took Ellie's hand across the table. “I'll do it,” he said.

“Wha... what?”

“I'll go out with you two for my birthday,” he said, and both of them broke into relieved little smiles at the change of topic. 

“Right on,” said Nate, putting another piece of unagi in his mouth. “We're going to tear up the town on Monday. You have a costume?”

“Absolutely!” said Ellie. 

“A what,” said Nick. 

“We're going to buy you a costume, and you're going to wear it,” said Ellie. 

“Am I?” he asked archly. 

“Oh yeah,” she said. “Just one more part of the unasked-for services I provide.” She picked out a piece of the mountain roll, and gestured with it while she spoke. “Nate's ex used to tell people I'd help them if they didn't look out.” She wrinkled her nose. “So I try not to be obnoxious about it, but. . . I dunno, the world can be so terrible. So I try to make it better where I can. Does that sound stupid?”

“Not at all, doll,” said Nick. He took a sip of his beer, and nearly choked when Nate spoke. 

“How long do we have to be friends for you to call me doll?” he said with an arched brow. 

“Well, doll,” said Nick. “I think just about now'll work.”

“I wasn't doll for at least a week!” said Ellie, mock-affronted. 

“We didn't get off to a magnificent start,” allowed Nick. 

“The first thing I asked him was if he could give me a hand,” said Ellie to Nate. 

“No!” said Nate, and laughed. “Well, we gave him one, so fair play, right?”

“Ooh, I hadn't thought of it that way,” said Ellie. “I like it.”

“Questions time,” said Nate. “What's with the accent?”

“It's real,” said Nick. “New York by way of Boston.”

“Is the eye color real? Ellie says they're for real, and I say they have to be contacts.”

“Ellie's right. I've got a mixed up background, but mainly English, Persian, Black, and Italian. I'm from everywhere,” said Nick. He tapped the table with his finger, and shrugged. “They don't make conditioner for that.”

“Conditioner!” said Nate, delighted. “I assumed you scowled your hair into submission in the mornings.”

“No, that was how I elicited confessions from perps,” said Nick with a mock-scowl. “I use my powers for good. And what, was I the topic of conversation when I went to the bathroom?”

“ _Nooo_ ,” said Ellie. 

“Yep,” said Nate. 

“Traitor!” cried Ellie, tossing a piece of pickled ginger at Nate with her chopsticks. “You threw me under the bus. Right. Away.” 

“No, I threw _us_ under the bus,” said Nate cheerfully. “You're the one who decided to lie.”

“Yeah, but like obvious-I'm-lying-lies. That's different.”

“Question three,” said Nate, still picking ginger out of his hair. “Favorite novel. Ellie says you're a big reader.”

“Hm. _One Hundred Years of Solitude._ Or maybe _Atonement_.”

“Cheerful,” said Ellie. “But beautiful. Favorite author?”

“Twain.”

“Musician?” said Nate. 

“Ella Fitzgerald.”

“Artist--”

“My turn,” said Nick. “Which the hell one of you am I on a date with, that we're playing twenty questions?”

“Ouch,” said Nate. “Uhm.” He turned to Ellie. “Paper-rock-scissors for him?”

“I saw him first,” she said, and it occurred to Nick that all three of them were a little drunk. 

“What, you called dibs or something?”

“I live in his house.”

“All the more reason to--”

“I retract the question, your honors,” muttered Nick. “I'm gonna go smoke.” He stood, dropping his napkin in his seat as he collected the dog's leash. 

“Nick,” said Ellie. “We're just teasing.”

_No,_ he thought. _You aren't._ Out loud, he said. “I know, doll. But an addiction is an addiction.” He patted his pockets and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, waving them at her as he vanished out the door. 

 

* * * * * 

 

They weren't kidding about taking him looking for a costume, he discovered. They took him straight to a Halloween shop, and he found himself fending off suggestions that ranged from Sexy Devil (Ellie's suggestion) to Sexy Spartan (Nate's suggestion) to Sexy Cop (Ellie and Nate's suggestion). 

“I'm not dressing up as a cop. I'm also sensing a theme, folks.”

Ellie grinned. “Halloween is supposed to be fun, Nick! And possibly a little sleazy.”

“Pass on sleazy. I don't do sleazy.” 

“I'm getting that. Sexy librarian?” suggested Nate, and Nick _hmmmed_. 

“I'm not sure how you dress up as a librarian, or else I might be with you.”

“Tweed suit, stack of books under your arm? Sexy glasses. Wire-rimmed.”

“He _wears_ wire-rimmed glasses to read!” blurted Ellie. 

“Sexy,” said Nate.

“No,” said Nick. “Needing reading glasses is not a symptom of sexiness. It's a symptom of being 40.” He gently returned to the rack an enormous 1970's pimp hat Ellie was trying to place on his head. 

“You're forty?” said Nate. “I would have guessed a little younger.”

“That's because you're so young,” said Nick. 

“Not that much younger than you,” said Nate. “Thirty-three. And Ellie is-”

“Almost thirty,” said Ellie with an exaggerated grimace. 

“We were in high school at the same time,” said Nate. “I was a Senior and she was a Freshman, but we were in a club together, and we reconnected online a couple of years ago.” He posed with a foam mace, swinging it at Ellie's head. 

“I was wondering what the relationship was,” said Nick. 

“You're free to. . .you know, ask about stuff,” said Ellie. 

“I figure people reveal what they want to reveal,” said Nick. “You know what? I've got an idea. I think I don't actually need anything here.”

“Rrrrreally?” said Nate. “Tell me more.”

“Nope,” said Nick. “You'll just have to be surprised.”

“Oh, shoot, a surprise!” said Ellie. “I'm thrilled to my little toes.” She did a few steps from _Thriller_ , and then moonwalked down the aisle. 

“That girl,” said Nate, as Ellie disappeared around the corner. 

“Tell me about it,” said Nick. “Tell me about it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know 3d prints take longer than this to cool but whatever. :)


	3. Freak Flag

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! This one was tougher than most. Nick is harder to write when he's tipsy.

Chapter 3

 

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY NICK!” shrieked a voice directly in Nick's ear. 

He yanked the phone away, and grimaced. “Dammit, Nat!” he swore. “I think I'm bleeding from the ear.”

Nat snickered. “An obvious sign of a good birthday: permanent hearing loss.” She lowered her voice, and whispered, “Whatcha planning on doing? Anything ridiculous, lewd, or inappropriate? Tell me yes. I know you're going to say something boring, like last year. 'Just a drink and a good book, Nat,'” she said, pitching her high teenager voice low and gravelly. 

“I'm going out with some friends, actually,” he said. 

There was silence on the line. 

“Nat?”

“No, I'm here. I just had to have Piper hit me with an epi-pen to restart my heart.”

“That's not how those work, sweetheart. Don't believe everything you see in _Pulp Fiction_.”

“Uhhh, regardless, you have a social life, Nick! When did this happen? You said 'friends' like plural, like more than one?”

Nick leaned back against the door frame to his bedroom. “Two, yes.”

“Well, bare minimum to say you have friends, I guess, but it'll do. When did you make said friends? Did you buy them on Craigslist? Get them from a charity for the moderately shut-in?”

“You're such a kind child; I remember why I moved.”

“Hey, Boston's just a plane ride away, old man.”

“To answer your question,” he said, “Ellie works downstairs, and we met that way. Her living situation fell through, and she lives in my spare room now. And Nate--”

“You have a _roommate_?! And a dog? Hold on, I have to lie down and re-center my breathing. Whew. Okay. So it's been a busy month, it sounds like. Is she pretty?”

“Jesus, kid. Yes, she's pretty.” And in an attempt to shock her, he said, “So is Nate.”

“Whu-hu-hoa!” she chortled. “Nick, you old dog. Are you dating either one of them?”

“Nope,” he said, slightly disappointed that he wasn't able to even slightly shock her. 

“But they're taking you out for your birthday. Are you wearing a costume?”

“Yep. Here. I'll text you a picture.”

A pause, as they fiddled with their respective phones, then Nat said, “Whooaaa! You clean up nice, actually. But this. . .isn't. . .a date?”

“Nope. Just drinks and a show with two friends. And the dog.”

“Dressed like that?” she said. “It's a date. Nobody's ever picked me up looking that slick.”

“That's because you're sixteen. Give it time, kiddo.”

“High schoolers are such... kids,” she said disparagingly. “Did I tell you Aimee Bradford's brother tried asking me out? I told him I'd go on a date if he could name two members of the Rolling Stones and all four Beatles, like you told me to.”

“Good kid. What'd he say?”

“He got as far as 'Ringo and uuhhhhhhh,' and then he walked away all sad. I yelled after him if he could beat me at Trivial Pursuit, I'd go out, and he just shook his head. Wimp.”

“Breaking hearts all over the city, sweetheart. Hey. I've gotta go. Nate just knocked at the door.”

“Break a leg, old man. Call me if you get shmammered; that'd probably be pretty funny.”

“I'm not drunk-dialing a minor,” he said. “Or anyone else. Tell your sister to call me tomorrow, okay?”

“Okay. Night!”

He hung up with her, and gave himself one last check in the mirror. His usual wavy brown curls had been tamed into something sleek that his short on the sides, longer on the top haircut worked well with. He had a classic jaw, now freshly shaved. Other than the golden-brown skin, he thought he did a good job of looking the part, but he was hardly going to apologize for _that_. He stepped out of the room with a touch of swagger usually missing in his step.

“Happy bir--” said Nate, looking up as he settled onto the couch. But he froze, half-seated. “Wow. Uh. I feel under-dressed, Nick.”

Nick arched an eyebrow, and brushed back the coat of his tux, showing off the harness holster under it. “Who's Nick? The name is Bond, James Bond.”

“I'm a hipster vampire,” said Nate dumbly. “I was a vampire before it was cool.”

“I can see that. I like the skinny jeans and the glasses with your Dracula makeup and cape.”

“Uhh,” said Nate. “Has Ellie seen you yet?”

“Nope,” said Nick. “She's still getting dressed. Though I suppose you two have seen each other since she must've let you in.” A door banged open at the end of the hall. “Speak of the devil.”

“TA-Daaaawhoa!” said Ellie, roller-skating out of her room. “Nick, holy crap. You look... really...”

“Classy?” suggested Nate. “High-class? Edible?”

“Yes, yes, and wow, okay.” Ellie skated to the end of the hall to examine him more closely. “Daggome. You look just wow.”

“You look pretty wow yourself, doll.”

She recovered a little, and spun in a circle. “I'm a roller-derby girl!” she said. “The pin-up kind, not the real kind, because the real kind is much scarier than me.”

“I know you'd give 'em hell in a roller-rink,” he said, and held out a hand to help her over the threshold between the hall and living room. 

“What about me?” said Nate, mugging for them. 

“You'd give 'em hell in a roller-rink, too, doll,” said Nick easily. “Looking tragically hip, and all.”

“Ohhh, tragically hip. I like it,” said Nate, rising from the couch. “We ready to grab an Uber?”

“Yep,” said Ellie. “Think I can do the stairs in roller skates?” She did a little spin again, and laughed. “Kidding. I'll unlace at the end of the hallway. I just wanted to show off a little.”

“You're pretty good on those skates,” said Nate.

“While other people were learning important life skills like how to balance a checkbook, I was out skating.”

“You seemed to have picked up a few skills since then pretty nicely,” said Nick. “Sewing, cooking, baking, barista-dom, grumpy old fogey-wrangling...”

“Just a few of my many skills,” said Ellie, skating backwards into the kitchen. “Who left the bourbon out?”

“Me,” said Nick. “Because if you think I got a tux on for you two without knocking one back first, you're out of your gourds.”

Nate and Ellie exchanged a look that was, to Nick, impenetrable. Were they concerned? Charmed? Bemused? He hadn't the faintest idea. But their ride was arriving, so he let himself be ushered out the door and into the darkening evening, Sausage at his side. 

 

* * * * *

He'd been concerned about taking Sausage into a bar, but they turned out to be going to a winery, and the ever-organized Ellie had called ahead and let the management know a service dog would be the fourth member of their party for the evening. They had tickets, it turned out, tickets and a table reserved to see a band that sounded gimmicky to Nick. 

But the food was amazing, and the music turned out to be a strange band dressed as mummies who played a blend of funk and rock with remarkable skill. And Ellie turned out to be an astonishingly good dancer, even on her roller skates. Maybe especially on her roller skates, he amended, watching her crouch low and stand again, all the while spinning in tight little circles.

Those tiny shorts ought to be illegal. But he watched her over the rim of his glass, too fascinated to look away. 

She mouthed something to him from the dance floor, and beckoned them by pretending to draw an imaginary rope toward her. 

“ _Go!_ ” said Nick over the music. “I'll stay with Sausage.”

“You go! It's your birthday!” said Nate.

“Nope!” said Nick, and shooed him toward the dance floor. And after a few reluctant moments, Nate complied, knocking back the rest of his drink before striding toward Ellie. He could dance, more or less, but he looked like a clod next to the fluid motions of Ellie, the exact fate Nick had hoped to avoid. Two songs later—two songs with lyrics that Nick noted were the precise right level of subtly dirty—they returned, out of breath and thirsty, ready to set upon the new drinks Nick had retrieved for them. 

“You sure can dance, doll,” said Nick admiringly, and Ellie glowed. 

Her face was flushed, her hair clung to her gently from exertion. If he hadn't been having fun, the whole night would have been worth it to see her that happy. It gave him a bit of pause to realize the only other time he'd seen her quite so happy was when he got his hand. 

She tucked a stray strand of hair back behind her ear, and beamed at him. “Nick! You should come dance. It doesn't matter if you don't know how—most guys don't.”

“I can dance,” he said mildly. “I just don't, typically. Not in crowds, especially.”

“Nooo!” she said. “Not bashfulness! Nobody'd be watching you, I promise. Everyone is so concerned with themselves that they hardly have any spare attention for anyone else.”

“Ahh,” he said. “I do crowds strictly from a peripheral point of view. This over here is plenty for me.”

“Okay,” she said, and started to say something else. Nick pretended he didn't notice Nate kick her ankle under the table.

“I tell you what, doll. I'll dance with you somewhere more sedate one day. Less crowded.”

“We could dance back at y'all's place,” said Nate easily, and Nick briefly considered a surreptitious kick of his own. 

But Ellie lit up. “I suppose we could,” Nick said, trying to match Nate's relaxed tone. 

“What kind of dancing do you do?” she asked, and he managed not to squirm. 

“Saying I dance is more... That is to say, I can dance. But I don't usually. I took a ballroom dancing class as a kid, because there was someone in the class I was interested in.”

She practically choked on her drink. “ _Get out!_ I took—well, not ballroom dancing, but my mom signed me up for cotillion when I was a kid. Are you saying you can foxtrot? Because that sounds perfect for you.”

“I can, and if it makes you happy, I will.” He polished off the rest of his drink, and signaled for a replacement.

“It does! Nate, do you foxtrot?”

“I... No?” said Nate, surprised, and Nick felt a little rush of vindictive pleasure as Ellie Took Note. 

“Oh my gosh! Nick and I can teach you. You'll be great at it; you're so good at learning new things.” She gave Nate's shoulder an encouraging little pat. 

“Wait,” said Nate. “Hang on. Does this mean I get to dance with both of you?”

“I can teach you how to lead... or follow,” said Nick, and was pleased at their twin expressions of surprise as they tried to work out if he'd just made a suggestive remark. “Which were you looking to do, doll?” 

“Well,” said Nate. “I think I'd better learn both?”

Nick took a sip of his drink, finishing it off. “Good,” he said. “I like it when people keep an eye toward being...versatile.”

There. That wasn't so hard. He used to be a glib bastard. A few drinks, and it started coming back to him. 

“Uh. That's me,” said Nate. “Captain versatility. Right, El?”

A pair of comically round eyes, outlined in black glittery eyeliner, darted from Nick to Nate and back. “Very!” she squeaked. 

Nick touched her shoulder, and Nate's arm. “I'm just going to step outside for a smoke,” he said. “You two keep watch over the table, right?”

He cocked an ear toward the band, and twitched a tiny smile. “I like these guys,” he said. “Good choice.”

And he walked toward the door as the band sang “We're not hear to judge ya/ We're just here to love ya/ Let your freak let your freak/ Let your freak flag fly!”

Outside, he took in a lungful of the cool night air, and reflected on the fact that he was more than likely a little drunk. He staggered a little, and Sausage whuffled at him anxiously before heading to a handy tree to relieve himself.

Nick looped the leash over his arm, and lit up, relaxing as the first hit of nicotine hit his system. He nodded to a group passing by, and one of the women turned back to give him a once-over and a wink. It must, he decided, be the tux. 

Sausage came back and leaned against his leg. “James Bond doesn't have a problem with dog hair,” he told the dog. “Then again, the guy's been through a lot. A dog likely wouldn't hurt.”

He turned so the smoke would float away from the dog, and watched as a few people began to trickle out of the winery, followed by a small flood. The band had finished their last song, and Nick found himself very faintly relieved. He'd had fun, but he was ready to head home. The crowd had narrowed again by the time Ellie and Nate came out of the building, laughing and half-hanging off each other, which Nick viewed with equanimity. Ellie deserved a night to be silly and have fun, if anything more than he did. 

“I bought you their CD,” said Nate. “Happy birthday, man.” 

“Thanks,” said Nick, pleased. “I was going to look them up for that exact reason, so this is good.” And to Nate's surprise and his own, he pulled the other man in for a hug. “Thanks,” he said again. “For the CD, for the tickets, for dragging me out of the house, all of it.”

“You're welcome,” said Nate, and laughed as the dog gently pushed them apart. “Okay, okay! We've been chaperoned. Worse than the middle school dance where a teacher popped the back of my head and reminded me to leave room for Jesus.”

“No!” said Ellie, aghast. “She hit you?”

“Gently,” said Nate. “It was funnier than anything else. Also, she was older than Methuselah, and we all loved her for being sweet and kinda dotty.”

“Oh, okay,” said Ellie, mollified. It warmed Nick's heart to see her offended on behalf of a twenty year old slight. She had, he decided, a good sense of what was just and what wasn't.

“'Leave room for Jesus,' huh?” Nick said. “I hope that isn't a rule you follow anymore, or else teaching you to dance is going to be tough.” He blew a smoke ring and put out his cigarette.

“I, uh. No,” said Nate, watching the smoke ring float away. “Not since I got out from under the watchful eye of Ms. Jacoby.” He pronounced it “Miz,” something Nick had noticed about Georgians – unless they were being formal, both Mrs. and Ms. were pronounced the same. 

“Good,” said Nick, heading for the street while Ellie fiddled with her phone to summon an Uber driver forth. He re-examined that thought, decided he was more than a little drunk, and was pleased. He hadn't gotten drunk _with_ someone in a dog's age.

“I,” he said. “Am just a bit drunk.” He gathered his wits, and pointed an accusing finger at Nate. “You've gotten me drunk, sir.”

“Are you complaining?” asked Nate. 

“Not at all,” said Nick carefully. “However. Teaching anyone to dance is going to be tricky.”

“This is going to be amazing,” said Ellie, gently tugging his arm to shift him into a more upright position. 

“Pff,” he said, and planted his feet wide to help him stay upright. “Pff,” he said again, because it had sounded good the first time. 

“I bought gatorade for us,” said Ellie. “You need, like, electrolytes and stuff. And I got you a present, but it's back at home.” 

“Well, thank you in advance,” he said with considerably more cheer than he could usually muster in his voice. “I'm looking forward to it.”

She eyed him askance. “You're _just_ drunk, right? Like, you didn't take anything else I should know about, did you?”

“Pff,” he said once more. “No. What kind of cop do you think I am? But I have had several bourbons. And I am very loose and unusually pleasant to be around. Yeah.”

“You're always pleasant to be around,” said Ellie, taking his arm and maneuvering him closer to their waiting car. 

“No, I'm sedate, which is not the same. Easy and pleasant are not commensurate.”

“You're like a drunk thesaurus,” said Nate, taking his other arm and--

_\--they grabbed him by either arm, dragging him toward the open side door, looking around anxiously. His head lolled against his chest. Move! Move! he commanded. But his limbs wouldn't obey, and his head wouldn't come up. Was the world always so grey at the edges? Did his head usually feel so heavy? Blood loss, he thought. Blood loss answers a lot of questions, none of which are how do I get out of here. Struggle! he thought. Do something! But--_

And he hit the ground hard, leading with his hip. “-fuck-” he heard, and was it Nate who said it? His arms were in front of his face, a defensive position, and his shoulder hurt. 

“Jesus, Nick! Are you okay?” Ellie reached out for him, then hesitated as the dog pushed between her and him, grumbling his upset whine and licking Nick's face. 

“Just a sec. Just a sec. I'm sorry. H-hang on,” he breathed. “Sausage. Good boy. Good boy.” He waved off their help and climbed to his feet. “Sorry,” he said again. “I didn't hurt-?”

“No, no, jeeze, Nick. You just suddenly shot backwards. Scared me!” said Ellie. 

He pulled a piece of peppermint out of his pocket, and popped it in his mouth. “Sausage,” he said, as the dog put a paw on his leg. “Thank you. I'm ok. I'm ok.” He took a deep breath, and then another. “I'm going to sit in back with the dog, ok?”

“What the fuck just happened?” asked Ellie, aghast. 

“Flashback,” said Nate. “Right? I've got a buddy from my time in the Marines with the same problem.”

“Yeah,” said Nick. He climbed into the SUV, and hogged the third row seat, opening the window to a cool breeze. 

“Nick, I'm sorry,” said Nate. “I didn't know--”

“Me neither,” said Nick. “It's okay. I'm okay if you two are. Everybody alright?”

And with both answering in the affirmative, Nick took a moment to try to regulate his breathing, to try to slow his heart rate, to try to convince his terrified body that he wasn't actually in danger. And bit by bit, it worked. Running his hands over the dog helped. The peppermint helped. The cool air helped. And by the time they were back at the apartment, he almost felt normal. 

“Sorry again,” he said, as Ellie unlocked the door to the apartment. She'd taken off her rollerskates again with a sigh of relief, and he touched her gently on the arm. “If I'd known I might react that way, I would've warned you.”

“It's fine,” she said. “It really is. I'm just glad _you're_ okay.” She graced him with a quick hug, and a peck on his cheek. “If you want to talk about...”

“I don't,” he said. “But thank you. You're a good gal.”

Her smile was only a few lumens short of the one she'd had coming off the dance floor, and he felt a little twitch of pride, having been able to make her happy. “Lemme just put these skates up, and if you're down, we'll give Nate that dancing lesson.”

“Wouldn't miss it,” he said. She disappeared to her room, and Nate to the bathroom. Nick took off the tuxedo coat, found it had a light smattering of dog hair from the ride back, and hung it on the back of a chair, then untied his tie. 

Had the writing on his CDs always been so small? He squinted, then fished out the wire-frame reading glasses from his pocket, unused at dinner, undamaged in his spill onto the sidewalk. Letters sprung into focus, and he danced his fingers over the CD rack until he spotted what he was looking for. He popped it into the CD player, and took a moment to read the liner notes of the CD from the band they'd heard earlier. 

And maybe it was just that Nate was a bit drunk, or maybe Nate had been serious at the costume shop when he'd said wire-rimmed glasses were sexy to him, but for the second time that night, Nate froze, this time walking out of the hallway. “I like, uhm. I like your holster. There. Nick.”

“Did I just hear a euuuuuuuphemism?” sang Ellie, pushing past Nate. “Ohhh. Lookin' like a ladykiller, Nick. With the tux and the glasses and the goddamn.” She'd unpinned her hair, and it hung around her face in loose curls, though the one big barrel curl at the front was still there.

“Might've heard one,” said Nick. “Foxtrot?” he asked. 

“Wait, I have your present first,” she said. She pulled her hands out from behind her back, and offered two items that in his opinion as a detective, were a gift wrapped book and a bottle of something.

She saw the look on his face, and they started laughing at the same time. “What! You said that's what you do for your birthday every year, so I thought...”

“You thought right,” said Nick. “Wouldn't be any good to break up a good theme.” He took them from her, the book in his bad hand for fear of dropping the heavier bottle of booze. Setting down the book, he tore open the wrapping on the bottle first, but reached out to stick the bow to Ellie's nose. “Buffalo Trace,” he said, pleased. “I've been hearing good things about this bourbon. Thank you.”

“The liquor store guy helped me choose it,” she said. “He told me it was an up and coming thing. But I chose the book myself.”

He tore open the paper on the book rather more carefully, and found a trade copy of _One Fearful Yellow Eye_ by John D McDonald. He turned it over in his hands. “I read a few of these in college,” he said. “I've always wanted to go back and read them.” He gave her a peck on the temple. “Thank you. You two are amazing.”

“My mother used to talk about how much she loved these. I read a few, myself, when I wasn't neck deep in assigned reading. English major. That's why I'm a barista. I'm over and under-educated.” 

“A fellow BA, eh?” said Nick. “I was all over the liberal arts spectrum myself.”

“No way,” said Nate. “I had you figured for a criminal justice degree, for sure.”

“That too,” said Nick. “I have a minor in criminal justice, but I double-majored in psychology and philosophy.”

“Whoa,” said Ellie. “So you can arrest people and use Plato's allegory of the cave to help psychoanalyze them as you drag them in?”

“Something like that,” said Nick, secretly happy with the mental image. “What about you, Nick?”

“I've got a degree in engineering with a minor in art, plus a summer course at a tech college on welding,” said Nate. “We're all magnificently over-educated for our current professions.”

“Nah,” said Ellie. “You're using yours for sure. Building big weird art and making things at the Makerspace. I'm the one here who's never used their degree.” But she smiled. “We all say we'll write that novel one day, right?” She gently removed the book from Nick's hands. “I remember being promised a dance.”

“Sure thing, doll.” He flipped on the CD player, and he laughed when Ellie started at the selection. 

“I wasn't guessing you for a modern swing kinda guy,” she said, taking his hand. 

He stepped forward, and into the dance. “The weird swing explosion in the late nineties should be what they were using to teach dancing right about the time you were cotillion-aged.”

“Guilty,” she said. And then they shut up and concentrated. 

She was mindful of his hand as she danced, and he lead in such a way that his right hand was never front and center as he spun her. 

Nate clapped when they finished. “You guys. I can't do that.”

“You absolutely can.” She walked to the kitchen to get a sip of water, and came back a few moments later with a glass for Nick as well. “It's actually super easy once you get the hang of it. I tell you what—I'll dance with you, and Nick can be right beside you so you can watch his feet right at first.”

“O-kaay,” said Nate. “But I'm supposed to lead when I don't know what I'm doing?”

“Much like life,” Nick said. He guided Nate out to the middle of the floor, and stood next to him. 

Ellie stood across from Nate, and took his hands. “So it goes slow step, slow step, side quick, together quick. You lead with your left foot and, good, just like that, one more time, okay, together together. Good!”

“I'm just looking at Nick's feet and doing what he does.”

“You could do worse in life than following Nick's lead,” she said, and nudged him into trying again. 

“You could do better, too,” said Nick. “Trust me.”

“Nah,” said Ellie, putting Nate through his paces. “I refuse to believe that's anything but humility talking.”

“I make mistakes. I spent a year and a half feeling sorry for myself recently, for instance.” He stepped again, watching Nate stare down at his feet.

“That seems fair. If someone shot me, I'd have trouble getting out of the house for a bit,” said Nate, promptly stepping on Ellie's foot as he looked up to answer. “Shoot! Sorry, El. Forward, forward, side, together. I can do this.”

“If I can go out of the house, you can dance,” said Nick. 

“That,” said Nate grimly, “remains to be seen.”

It took about fifteen minutes for Nate to get the corner step down, for him to consistently avoid Ellie's feet. And when he got cocky, and spun Ellie like he'd seen Nick do, Nick took over from Ellie, following Nate's lead as smoothly as he'd led Ellie.

“Feeling confident?” he asked. 

“Sure thing,” said Nate. 

“Good. Now follow.” And with that, he took the lead, and Nate promptly fell over his own feet, tumbling into the couch and pulling Nick down with him. 

“Is being a failure all it takes to get you onto the couch with me?” asked Nate. “I can fail at shit all the time. I'm really good at failing.” He flipped his shaggy hair out of his eyes, and grinned. “I like this you-in-my-lap thing.” 

“I thought you wanted to learn to lead and follow,” said Nick.

“Are we talking in double entendres again? I love talking in double entendres,” said Ellie, flopping down next to them. “You two sound very versatile.”

“Very very,” said Nate. 

“Says the man who can lead but not follow,” said Nick. He sat up, still halfway in Nate's lap. 

“I can follow! I just have these two left feet, sir.” 

“Sounds like a major handicap,” said Nick, faux-dubious. “Some of us are getting along as best we can with just three out of four major appendages, and you're hogging all the left feet.”

“Ouch,” said Nate. “I would gladly donate one to you, but you seem to be in possession of all of your feet, left or otherwise.”

“I'll remember the offer,” said Nick grandly. “It's very kind.”

“I'm a very giving man,” said Nate with an eyebrow waggle. 

“But are you as gracious a recipient of gifts?” said Nick. “Because while the adage about it being better to give might apply here, sometimes it's good to do both.”

“Ah've so rarely met a gift Ah didn't greet gratefully,” said Nate in the most overblown genteel southern accent Nick had ever heard. 

Nick groaned. “Even a Yankee like me knows you folks don't talk like that outside of period movies.”

“Am I being a third wheel?” Ellie blurted out suddenly. “If I'm being a third wheel I can--”

Nick dropped into the space between Ellie and Nate, and slung an arm around her shoulder. “No,” he said. “No, you aren't.”

“Are you sure?” she asked, and genuine worry touched her face. “Because as the woman present, I have a sudden need to actually get an out-loud confirmation that I'm not being a pest. And also I'm really nervous that I might be barking up a tree that doesn't... that usually.... Okay, you two? I am way out of euphemism. I'm tired and I'm still kinda drunk, and I am way blunt. Nick, are you gay?”

“Uhh,” he said. 

“Shit,” said Ellie. “Shit, I'm sorry, I am being a pest, _dammit_.”

She started to rise, and Nick hooked an arm around her. “Hey,” he said. “Doll. I uhmed because I was startled, not because I'm gay.”

“Oh,” she said in a very small voice. “But you and Nate are getting along...” and her voice got quieter and smaller still. “Really. Really. Well.”

He rubbed his good hand over his face and sighed. “I'm not really one or the other. I'm just me.”

She took a big breath. “Nick. Am I making an ass of myself?”

“Nah,” he said. “You had a little moment. Happens to us all.” He leaned his head against her shoulder, and to his left, Nate entwined a hand with his. 

They watched the clock on the wall tick over to midnight. “Good birthday?” asked Nate.

“Best I've had in years,” said Nick, his voice thick with exhaustion. He felt heavy and warm, and for the first time in years, utterly content. 

It was a feeling worth examining, he thought. But his eyes drifted shut, and it was hours later when he felt Nate gently disentangle himself and drape a blanket over the two of them. He'd think about it tomorrow. Tomorrow, when Ellie's hair wasn't draped over his shoulder. Tomorrow when the world was bright and clear, he would sort this whole thing out and make sense of the strange and happy thing that his life was becoming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The band referenced is called Here Come the Mummies, and they're pretty damn cool. 
> 
> And if I screwed up how the foxtrot works it is only because I am an idiot who cannot dance to save her life.


	4. The Galaxy Song

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! I've been crazy sick with bronchitis for the better part of a month, PLUS this chapter ended up being twice the length of all of the other ones. So I've got that goin' for me, which is nice. 
> 
> The warnings from chapter 1 apply again, so reader beware. Trigger warning for the very end of the chapter.

Nick woke to a number of conflicting emotions. 

First, he was extremely hung over, bleary, afflicted by a headache, and in possession of an acid stomach. Secondly, and more upsettingly, he was the only one on the couch. Someone had, however, piled the pillows against him to lean on, and a blanket had been carefully tucked around him. 

He sat up with a groan, and the blanket puddled around his waist. No Nate. No Ellie. He had a dim memory of Nate leaving in the night, but where was Ellie? Bewilderment and gentle hurt gave way to a warm feeling as he spotted all the signs of Ellie's presence on her recently installed coffee table. Her glittery jewelry was in a pile next to a gatorade and a paper with pills on it. In Ellie's bubbly handwriting, there was a note under the first two pills that read “tylenol” under the second “potassium” and under the last “oh god my stomach.” He took them with the gatorade, grateful for the kindness. 

A few minutes of shuffling around and a shower put him in a considerably better state. He shaved, dressed, and made a strategic decision to skip his morning jog considering it was already past noon. 

It wasn't until he was ready to leave and picking up Sausage's leash that he noticed the note on the fridge in a blocky scrawl. 

_Hey! Sorry to cut and run on you two. I had a ten am appointment with a client that I needed to get to, and I figured sleep might help. Had an amazing time. We should do something this week – a movie or lunch maybe._

_-Nate_

_ps- you're cute in your sleep.  
Pps- this means you._

And in Ellie's handwriting, a second note had been added below the first. 

_Got a text they want me to fill in as baking-chick this morning. (5am!) Off at 1. Hydrate!  
-e_

_(This means you? What does that MEAN?)  
_

He pulled the note off the fridge, and wandered back to his bedroom, Sausage dogging his heels. The note he put inside a wooden box with his cufflinks, spare watch, penknife, and other odds and ends. His phone, returned to its charger before his shower, flashed to show it was charged, so he slipped it in the pocket of his jeans. His white dress shirt took some finagling, as always, to turn up the sleeves, but with that done, he tucked the book Ellie had given him under his arm and headed out the door. Sausage's leash was looped lightly on his wrist. He was more or less convinced the leash wasn't for the dog's benefit, but to reassure people who might be afraid of the enormous German shepherd dog in public. 

Downstairs, there was no sign of Ellie, to his disappointment, so he ordered his usual coffee, and hesitated over breakfast. The usual chalkboard sign had been wiped and erased, and where usually it offered a fairly tame list of baked goods—chocolate chunk cookies, blueberry muffins, croissant sandwiches, and so on—today it listed things that were largely unknown to him. It read:

Pear Jam Thumbprint Cookies  
Blueberry Scones  
Candied Ginger and Rosemary Shortbread  
Orange Cranberry Cookies  
Chocolate Cruffins  
Cayenne Brownies with Chocolate Chunks  
Espresso Cookies

“Ellie hard at work back there?” he asked Andre. 

“Making God-knows-what,” said the tall barista. “I don't even know what regular shortbread is supposed to taste like, let alone candied whatever.”

“I'll take a shortbread,” he said. “Sounds interesting.”

“G'luck, Nick,” said Andre, and put the shortbread on a plate.

Outside, Nick had his first cigarette of the day with his coffee. He waited to try the shortbread all on its own, though. It had sugar baked on top and tiny diced bits of candied ginger and rosemary all through it, making it sweet, bright, and savory all at once. Once it was gone, he pressed his finger to the plate to pick up the crumbs. 

The first chapters of his book took him to a lakehouse in a Chicago winter, a mysteriously missing fortune, and a recently bereaved widow. He was deeply engrossed in the problems of Travis McGee when a shadow fell over his book. He looked up, vaguely disoriented for a moment as he came out of an imagined world, then smiled when he saw Ellie setting down new coffees for each of them. “One already?” he asked. 

She laughed. “Two! They kept me an extra hour. Not that I'd mind a little overtime, but I'm crazy tired after last night.” She sat, and he noted the dusting of flour over her apron. She caught his gaze, and, flapped her apron gently, sending up a puff of flour. “I know, I know. I've never looked cuter. Nothing like that breaded-and-ready-to-fry look on a girl.” 

“Look pretty damn good to me. I like a girl who knows her way around candied ginger and whatever a cruffin is. (Though I can guess.)”

She glanced at his empty plate. “What'd you try? Did you like it? I hope you liked it!”

“I had the shortbread. If you keep making that, I'm going to have to add a mile to my jog every day.” 

Through the flour and the odd streak of blueberry juice on her cheek, she glowed. “You say the sweetest things.”

“Just the facts, ma'am,” he said, doing his best Sergeant Friday. 

“Oh my god, and a Dragnet quote? I could eat you up.”

“I take that kind of threat seriously from a woman as handy in the kitchen as you are. You're too young to remember Dragnet, anyway.”

She wasn't wearing her usual makeup. Just a bit of pale pink on her lips, which curved into a little smile. “So're you,” she said. “Stop trying to act like forty is ancient.” 

He raised his coffee to her, and took a sip. “Guilty as charged. But I did have cable in the nineties, and I used to leave the television on when they were showing old stuff on one of the kid's channels. Mostly for noise while I studied.” 

“Haven't seen you turn on the tv since I've been there. Which is a little bit too bad, because I'd like to maybe watch a movie with you.”

He raised an eyebrow, and didn't look away from her while he tapped a cigarette out of the pack and lit it. “Why, Ms. Perkins,” he drawled. “Are you asking me out on a date in our apartment?”

“Maybe I am. I'll cook Indian food, you pick the movie. It'd better be black and white, too.” She arched an eyebrow back at him, and he wasn't quite sure what to think of that. “Shall I invite Nate over as well?”

“Depends on if that's a trick question.”

“It... isn't, actually.” She watched him take a drag from his cigarette. “If things develop with you and Nate, I'm not stopping it. And if things take off with you and me, I'd bet my stand mixer that he won't get in the way, either.”

He tapped the ash off the end of his cigarette. “I like you, Ellie. And I like Nate, too. But there are a lot of other things that could happen other than just those. Either one of you could lose interest in me.” He held up his prosthetic hand to stop her before she objected. “Or I could put the brakes on it for fear of screwing things up with the first two friends I've made in this city who weren't part of the police department. Or I could be too old and scared to be ready to try again. There are a lot of ways me being me could screw this up, actually.” He took another drag, and exhaled smoke away from Ellie. “Or-”

“Or-?” she asked. “Or what?”

“Or we all come to some kind of agreement.”

Those pale pink lips curved again, and he wondered, briefly, if he would have the strength to choose, to crush this fresh new thing before it could grow into something huge, something terrifying. “An agreement. Mr. Valentine. What kind of girl do you think I am?” She batted those long dark lashes at him, and laughed. “I'm not a jealous girl, if that helps.”

“I think it might.” He stood, and offered her his good hand. She took it, rising smoothly to her feet. “Lot of ifs and maybes.”

“You don't look so iffy to me.” And suddenly she was wrapping her arms around him, burying her face against his chest. “Yep. Solid, handsome guy,” she mumbled. When she stepped back, her cheeks were as pink as her lips. 

He brushed a little flour off his shirt, and her eyes widened. “Oops. I--”

“You set up a date with a baker, you take the risk of a little flour in your life.” He licked his thumb, and wiped the blueberry off her cheek, more or less. “Are you going to be doing the baking often?”

She started to answer, and changed her mind about something before it crossed her lips. Her attention seemed to largely be on him, and not his question. “Uhm. Maybe? Depends on if the regular baker comes back, I guess. But he's got a drug habit that's occupying a lot of his time lately. And I guess it depends on if people like my stuff.”

“I like your stuff, doll,” he said, and put a hand in the small of her back to guide her inside. She picked up the coffees, so he got the door for the two of them. “Is it what you want to do?”

“Other than writing an award winning cookbook? Yeah. It really is. I was really happy working back there. Not that I don't have plenty to be happy about today. I had a pretty stellar Halloween, after all.”

“It was a damn fine night,” he said. He dropped his hand from her back, and saw a brief flash of disappointment on her face. But he got out his wallet and bought a small box of her cookies. “We should get some lunch put together.” He raised the box. “For after.” 

She took the box from him, to free a hand for Sausage's leash. “You're a sweet man.”

“Let's not confuse intrinsic sweetness with a sweet tooth, sweetheart.” 

Later, while Ellie grabbed a shower (and sang songs from Little Shop of Horrors at the top of her lungs), he texted Nate. 

_Dinner by Ellie, movie picked by me. A Nick pick, if you will. Wednesday at 7?_

And then he waited. Two minutes went by. Three. Five. This is why normal people had things like Facebook on their phones, he decided. To fill up time when what they really wanted to do was stare at the screen until something important appeared. 

It buzzed. 

_Can't do Wednesday. Can y'all do Thurs? Need Nick Pic for personal reasons._

He aimed the camera at himself, gave it his best scowl, and checked the picture. Was it too much scowl? How much was enough? The hell with it, he thought. He sent it along with the picture of him in his tux from the night before. 

_You're the second person in two days to make me take a picture of myself, thereby doubling my lifetime selfie numbers. Congratulations. Thursday should be fine; will double check with Ellie._

This time the phone went off again almost immediately, saving him the trouble of pretending there was something interesting he'd been meaning to google. 

_Who is this mysterious other person who has such power over you? Can you glower harder, or is that your limit? I have many questions._

He hesitated, and wished he were outside so he could smoke. 

_Not a glower. A scowl. Fine difference. Can scowl harder in extremis, but would be hard put to muster under every day circumstances. Mysterious other is my friend's kid, Nat, who is an extra sassy sixteen. She finds it amazing that I've made friends and demanded proof of my dressing up._

_Nat? Good name. You'll have to introduce us. Nat, Nate. Nate, Nat._

_She's in Boston. But I believe she and Piper have vague plans to visit in spring. This is, by the way, the most texting I have done in some time._

The response came back whip quick. 

_Am I out of bounds if I tell you I just started feeling shitty when I realized I'm keeping a one handed man texting longer than he probably meant to be? Is that stupid? Should I shut up?_

_Woe is me. Will never type as fast as a tween. All I meant is that I don't usually “do” this kind of thing. Chatting. Feel flattered._

_Very flattered. This is my flattered face._

The picture that loaded was of Nate, smoldering at the camera. Something low in Nick's belly tightened, and it was a moment before he replied. 

_Goddamn. ___

__A winky face emoji was all he got in return._ _

__

__* * * * *_ _

__A few small things of note happened over the next few days._ _

__To Ellie's disappointment, the errant baker turned back up for his next two shifts. To her delight, her baked goods developed a small but devoted following. Back at the register again, she lobbied hard to be given another crack in the kitchen. Her boss, she said, had made a considering noise, but promised nothing._ _

__On the home front, more of Ellie's things trickled out of the spare bedroom and into his everyday life. When a small bevy of creams and cleansers and mud masks appeared in the corner of the bathroom counter, he cleared out a space in the medicine cabinet for her. He decided to take her moving her things into the bathroom as further confirmation of her intent to stay long term. His shaving kit went up a shelf, old medications were tossed in the trash, and the first aid stuff got reorganized. In the end, he ceded half the cabinet to her. Uncertain if he was overstepping some sort of boundary, he lined her things up on the shelf, and left the mirrored cabinet open._ _

__The steam from his shower the next morning revealed a heart with an arrow through it fingertip-drawn on the mirror._ _

__He must, he decided, be doing something right._ _

__He filled the days between with reading and jogging and maybe a touch more coffee than he might usually get. If any of the other baristas noticed his coffee consumption increase, they said nothing. Ellie joined him for his morning or evening jog, but typically not both. He preferred to go at times she referred to as “catastrophically early” and “mugger late.” He just wasn't a fan of the heat of Georgia in the summer, and had gotten used to going early and late. And if he was honest with himself, he wasn't a fan of jogs which featured other people—the just-dropped-the-kids-off-at-school moms in the mid morning were almost as bad as the power-couples in the after-work crowd._ _

__“We're gonna find a body like this,” she panted as they jogged through Candler Park. “Late night jogging? We're gonna see a murder, and they're going to kill us to keep us silent. Or find a body in the early morning, dew all over it. Joggers with dogs. That's how bodies get found.”_ _

__“In Candler park? We're more likely to see someone paying off their yoga teacher than see a murder,” he said easily. “I've seen plenty of dead bodies. Finding one in a park won't put me too out of sorts.” He let the leash play out so that Sausage could wander into the treeline and whuffle through the brush while they rested._ _

__She wrinkled her nose. “It's weird to think of you standing over dead bodies and taking notes, asking questions, yelling for the coroner or whatever.”_ _

__“You've been watching too many crime dramas on television. I never yelled at the coroner. I asked her out to dinner once, though. Also, nobody picks up the murder weapon with the tip of their pencil.” He took a drink from his water bottle, and stuck it back in his back pocket._ _

__“I'm just saying. How did it go? Your date with the coroner, I mean.”_ _

__“Never happened. She was dating someone, but awfully flattered, I think. But she did introduce me to a friend of hers later. That was Jenny.”_ _

__Brown eyes searched his face, and he was half-certain he could hear questions forming. But what she settled for was, “How long were you two together?”_ _

__“Four years,” he said, and turned to watch Sausage sniff enthusiastically at some important dog smell. “We got engaged just before she got sick. I wish I'd asked her sooner. We were standing in a bakery, looking at damn wedding cake pictures in this huge binder when she started talking nonsense. Word salad, is what they call it. Aphasia. And she was staring at me like I was crazy for not understanding what she was talking about. She started clutching... clutching the side of her head, and I panicked. Thought she was having a stroke. I got her into my car, hit the blues, and broke about a hundred traffic laws getting her to the hospital.” He whistled, and Sausage wended his way back through the trees, untangling his leash from them with considerably more ease than Nick would have expected. “We had an answer in less than a day. Good doctors, too. But it isn't a kind of cancer a lot of people get better from. She lived fifty-four days from then. They couldn't operate due to the location. She did chemo, but... Eventually all there was for her was palliative care. So she went home to die.”_ _

__Ellie's arm slipped around his waist, and she tucked her head against his shoulder. “You took care of her.” It wasn't precisely a question._ _

__“Yeah. With help from a hospice nurse. Yeah.”_ _

__She stood on her tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek. “I'm sorry,” she said._ _

__He didn't look down at her, but after a moment, he put his arm around her in turn. “Yeah,” he said, and cursed himself for sounding stiff, unnatural. At his feet, Sausage did his big dog lean against him, whining for attention. He stooped, petting the dog between the ears. “I'm okay,” he told the dog, but it was for Ellie, too._ _

__Her hands traveled over Sausage's ruff, sinking into the thicker fur. “Liar,” she said, and he barked a laugh._ _

__“Yeah,” he said. “Ya found me out, coppah.”_ _

__“Now who's over-playing their accent?” she teased. “Besides, that's like... Chicago gangster talk. Wrong city.”_ _

__“Pshh. Details,” he said. There was a half-beat, and he said, “You would have liked her.”_ _

__The smile he got was sad. “What was she like?”_ _

__“She was smart, and funny,” he said, and sat down on a nearby bench. “Really snotty about it, too. It was this overblown, arch, better-than-you act. Meanwhile, she was out ruthlessly fundraising for at-risk teens and a shelter for runaways. She was the kindest mean person I've ever known. She thought she'd actually hurt my feelings once, and burst into tears. She'd bust your balls over anything, but never really seemed to go too far.” He patted the bench, and Ellie sat down next to him._ _

__“She came from money, even if most of the family fortune was gone by the time she was grown, and carried herself with more poise and class than ten other society gals combined. She used to tell people she wore high heels and pearls to go jogging when they asked if she ever relaxed in sweat pants at home. She couldn't cook, but she could crochet, and every night when we sat down to watch a movie or just read, she was making things for people – scarves for homeless people, stuffed toys for foster kids, blankets for friends who had babies. She gave every damn second away, right up until the end. She smoked like a chimney and listened to really awful pop music, and never once in her life left the house until her makeup was perfect.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and thumped Sausage's side so the dog's tongue lolled out in a happy doggy grin._ _

__“She sounds amazing,” said Ellie wistfully. “I wish I'd known her. I-” She hesitated, then forged ahead. “After my parents died... let's be a little more real, here. After my mom OD'd and my dad killed himself... after that, I ended up in foster care for a while. I was sixteen. Got myself declared an emancipated minor not too long after, but... I was pretty much an at-risk teen. So yeah. I don't know if I would have liked her then, because I was an angry, resentful little shit for a long time, but I sure appreciate the kind of people who have it in them to do that kind of work now. And funny-mean to boot? Yeah. I would have liked Jenny.”_ _

__“Jesus, doll. I didn't know.”_ _

__“Right? All of that practically screams 'future victim of domestic violence,' doesn't it? It's amazing it didn't happen before now. Fucking Connor.”_ _

__“Anybody can find themselves in that kind of situation,” he said. “You don't have a label that says “Victim” on your forehead attracting creeps. You got hurt, you took a few days to think it over, broke up, and he escalated it. I'd give a lot for you to have not gone through what you did. But you did the right thing, and it takes a strong person to do that.” He kissed her on the temple. “You're a tough cookie, Ellie Perkins. You'll be okay. And if you ever aren't, you come to me right away, and we'll work through it together, right?”_ _

__“You know you can do the same, right, Nick?”_ _

__“I figure I can, doll. But getting me to do the right thing for myself is another struggle entirely. Let's get you back home so you can grab your shower before work. I usually observe a strict no emotions before coffee rule, too.”_ _

__“You sexy rule-breaking man, you,” she said, standing and stretching before facing home, and sprinting away so fast that he had to struggle to catch up._ _

__

__* * * * *_ _

__Ellie's eight hour shift was more than enough time for Nick to work up a good, strong anxiety about the upcoming evening. His book was finished. The movie was ready to go in his long-neglected DVD player. Ellie said they had everything they needed for dinner. A few minutes' walk to the store netted a bottle of wine to serve with dinner. After that, he bought a frisbee and took MARTA to a nearby dog park._ _

__The trainer had told him that taking off Sausage's vest (almost never used) or collar would let him know he wasn't working, but he hadn't quite anticipated how pleasing it would be to see the ever-serious Sausage tear across the dog park in a blur of black and tan, enormous tongue lolling out the side of his mouth. He tucked the collar into his pocket, and whistled to the dog, calling him back. A few experimental tosses of the frisbee proved that Sausage could catch onto anything new in short order. Soon, the German shepherd was jumping and twisting into the air to catch the disc, bringing it back, and panting while staring fixedly at the frisbee until Nick threw it again._ _

__And it all went marvelously for about fifteen minutes._ _

__Sausage leapt. A grey blur leapt. And the two dogs collided in mid-air and went down in a tangle of yipes and furiously pedaling legs. A middle-aged woman shrieked and ran toward the two dogs as Nick did the same, minus the high-pitched yell._ _

__“Everybody okay?” he said, and reached out with his good hand, checking Sausage for injuries. The dog seemed more dazed than anything else, and patiently let Nick examine him. He gave himself a little shake, and leaned against Nick._ _

__“Excuse _me_ ,” said the woman frostily. “But do you really think a dog park is the right place for a dangerous breed like that?” _ _

__“Just a little accident, miss,” he said easily. “Guess your, uh, schnauzer? Got a little excited about the frisbee. He okay?”_ _

__“She,” said the woman. “And I'll be taking her to the vet to be certain. What's your name and address? I'll send you the vet bill.”_ _

__“Now listen,” he said. “Your dog leapt for my dog's toy. Ran right into Sausage. I'm sorry it happened, but she doesn't seem to be injured.” The schnauzer was enthusiastically licking its nether regions, happily oblivious to the strife it had caused._ _

__“German Shepherds are dangerous animals,” she said. Her face, ruddy to start with, was steadily turning redder._ _

__“Sausage? He's a retired cop,” said Nick. “Killed a man once in the line of duty.”_ _

__“Oh my god. Why would you bring an animal like that to a dog park? He should be put down!” She was standing too close, and her hands were shaking even as she stabbed an accusatory finger at him._ _

__“Well,” said Nick. “I'm his therapist, see, and I'm trying to get him to reintegrate with society.”_ _

__“You have got to be kidding me. There are children here! He could kill someone!” She got steadily more shrill as she spoke, and Nick's temper grew frayed._ _

__“You're right,” growled Nick. “I've gotten all turned around. He's the therapy animal. I'm the retired cop.” He pulled the collar and leash from his pocket, and clumsily clipped it around the dog's neck so that the reflective letters spelling out SERVICE DOG showed. “C'mon, murder beast. We're heading home.”_ _

__The woman's eyes lit on his prosthetic hand, and she paled, but said nothing as Nick stalked away, Sausage right at his side._ _

__He was all the way back to the MARTA station to wait for the next train before he got his breathing back to normal, before the prickling heat on the back of his neck disappeared. Sausage whined and tried to lean, tried to get his attention, and finally climbed into his lap when he dropped into a bench at the station. After a few minutes of passive-aggressive dog cuddling, he pulled out his phone and scrolled to the P's._ _

__“Piper's phone, shower secretary reporting for duty!” was the aggravatingly chipper answer._ _

__“Nat,” he growled. “Tell your sister to damn well call me,”_ _

__“Whoa,” she said. “You sound like you just bit someone's ear off in a heavyweight match. Does your therapist know you've taken up sports?”_ _

__“Jesus, Nat. Can you just promise you'll tell her to call?”_ _

__“No can do. Talk to me. What's got your boxers in a twist?”_ _

__He sighed heavily. “Just yelled at someone in a dog park because she accused me of having a dangerous animal that should be put down.”_ _

__“Fuck her, then. I hope you were all like, 'This my service dog biiiiitch; walk off the side of the nearest bridge, ho.'”_ _

__“No. But I let her see the collar. And my hand. And then I stalked away like a self-righteous prick.”_ _

__“Goooood,” said Nat. “Let the dark side flow through you, Nicholas.”_ _

__He pinched the bridge of his nose. “My point is that I lost control, Nat, and that's not a good thing.”_ _

__“Why? You yelled at someone acting like a total twat-”_ _

__“Nat!”_ _

__“Well, she was. Anyway she was acting like a... like a mean vajayjay. (I hope that makes you happier because I just died a little inside.) And you yelled, showed her she was an idiot, and left the situation. I legitimately don't see the problem other than the fact that you probably got your blood pressure up. I'd watch that after forty. How'd your birthday go, by the way? Are you dating either of the hotties?”_ _

__“I-what? We're having dinner tonight.” He rubbed his face. “Ellie is cooking for us, and Nate is coming over.”_ _

__“Sooo... you're dating both of them?”_ _

__“I haven't got the foggiest idea, kid. Just—tell Piper to call, okay?”_ _

__“Wait! I want to tell you something first.”_ _

__He sighed. “Yeah?”_ _

__And then she sang:_ _

_____“Whenever life gets you down, Mrs. Brown,_  
And things seem hard or tough,  
And people are stupid, obnoxious or daft,  
And you feel that you've had quite eno-o-o-o-o-ough, 

____Just remember that you're standing on a planet that's evolving__  
And revolving at 900 miles an hour.  
It's orbiting at 19 miles a second, so it's reckoned,  
The sun that is the source of all our power.  
Now the sun, and you and me, and all the stars that we can see,  
Are moving at a million miles a day,  
In the outer spiral arm, at 40,000 miles an hour,  
Of a galaxy we call the Milky Way.”  
He started laughing, but she was undeterred, and sang the rest of the song while he sat in the MARTA station, laughing helplessly until she reached the end. 

___“And pray that there's intelligent life somewhere out in space/cause there's bugger all down here on Earth!”_ _ _

__“Okay, okay. Point taken.”_ _

__“What have we learned?” she sing-songed._ _

__“That I shouldn't let the bastards get me down?” he asked._ _

__“Ugh, sure. I was going to say 'A call to Nat is cheaper than one to the therapist' but whatever soppy shit you came up with is good too.” She paused. “Looks like Piper's in the singing-while-she-towels-off stage of the shower. Want me to slide the phone under the door?”_ _

__“I still remember the time you did that with Facetime on. Let's not give her a heart attack.”_ _

__“Whatever you say,” she said innocently. “I'll tell her to call you, old man.”_ _

__“No you won't,” he said. She was still cackling when he hung up after a firm “ _Goodbye, Nat._ ”_ _

__

__* * * * *_ _

__

__Ellie was home by the time he arrived back at the apartment, and from the moment he entered, he was on his guard._ _

__There was a distinct burnt smell. An open window. A clanging as a spoon was flung with much more force than necessary into the sink, followed by the slamming of a drawer._ _

__He unclipped Sausage's leash, and the dog bolted for Ellie, coming to a halt at her feet, and promptly leaning on her shins. She sighed, and squatted next to the dog, wrapping her arms around him. “Hey, baby,” she whispered. “Who's a good dog?”_ _

__Nick dropped the leash into the basket Ellie had hung on the wall for that purpose, and entered the kitchenette cautiously. “What happened?” he asked._ _

__She swallowed convulsively, and when she looked up at him, he could see that she'd wiped off all of her eye makeup. Recently, judging from the still-pink skin under her eyes, and the slight smattering of glitter. “Just- everything at work was bad. Just bad from the moment I got there and busted my tail slipping in the milk I'd just spilled to the guy who stole the tip jar. The woman who told her daughter not to quit school or she'd end up like us after the kid said she wanted to work in a bakery was really the cherry on top of the crap-fest, though. And now I'm ruining. Every. Thing. I. Touch.”_ _

__“Ah, sweetheart.” He reached down, and took her hand, helping her up. He gave her a side hug that let her keep her hands on the dog. She felt shaky to him. “Have you eaten anything today?”_ _

__“A couple of cookies,” she said, and grimaced. “I know, I know.”_ _

__“Sit,” he said, steering her toward the little kitchen table. A few moments of rummaging in the fridge turned up cheese, a bunch of grapes, and a bottle of juice. He got down some crackers as well, and set the assembled plate on the table in front of her. “Stop me if this doesn't sound good to you: you're going to eat. We're going to talk about your terrible day and my bad day, and after that, I'll dice and cut and prep things for dinner while you go and get fixed up with your makeup and whatever else you need to do before Nate gets here. And then I'll keep you company while you cook. Sound good?”_ _

__“There is legitimately no way I deserve you,” she said, and popped a few grapes in her mouth._ _

__“Pff,” he said, but couldn't stop a smile from coming to his lips._ _

__

__* * * * *_ _

__An hour and a half later, the apartment smelled amazing, the dog was fed, the living room was tidied, Ellie's makeup was back to being an extravaganza of gold glitter and a red lipstick that did...things to Nick's imagination. She wore a knee-length tight striped skirt, and a scoop-neck shirt in a frosty mint color. Her shoes were ballet flats with little sparrows on them, and he knew what to call them only because she'd come down the hallway asking his opinion on ballet flats versus mary janes, holding up the two offending specimens._ _

__But when 7:15 rolled around and there was no sign of Nate, Ellie's attempt to force herself back into good spirits started to fray._ _

__And by 7:30, Nick was more or less in the same boat._ _

__Still, when there came a knock at the door, Nick answered it with a quickness that came, he suspected, from his nervousness. Sarcasm withered on his tongue as he got a good look at Nate. His hair was damp with sweat, there were black streaks on his hands and face, and he looked so pathetically hang-dog that Nick was momentarily speechless. “What happened?” he finally managed. Then, “Get in the door, man, and let's get you a stiff drink.”_ _

__Nate walked to the table and collapsed into one of Ellie's cute little chairs. “I have had,” he said slowly, “the worst fucking day.”_ _

__Ellie made a strangled noise, and buried her head in the freezer, retrieving ice for Nate's glass. Nick fared a little better she had, and kept, at the very least, a straight face. “What happened, doll?”_ _

__“I just... I nearly got into an accident on the Perimeter, and this crazy person forced me off the road, where of course I blew a damn tire. And I finally got the spare on, got back into the car and on the interstate, realized I should give you two a call to tell you I'd be late, and that was the moment that the crunching noise from under the car as I pulled back into traffic made sense. And-why is Ellie laughing?” There was no anger attached to the question. Just weary curiosity._ _

__Nick swallowed, stifling a twitch at the corner of his lips. “Lemme just...” He poured a drink for Nate, and dropped a hand onto the other man's shoulder. “Ellie,” he said with all the gravity he could muster, “has had a terrible day of her own. Complete with a milk-related fall, a stolen tip jar, and a nasty customer who told her daughter to stay in school lest she end up like Ellie. And I had a dust-up with a woman at the dog park who tried to tell me that as a dangerous beast, Sausage should be put down. So... There's plenty of that going around, here.”_ _

__“So the day can only get better from here?” asked Nate, pointedly ignoring Ellie's continuing giggle fit._ _

__“Good God, man, don't jinx us,” said Nick. “Drink your drink. Pet the dog. Then take a minute and wash up, because those garlic naan are keeping warm in the toaster oven.”_ _

__“All good advice,” said Nate, relaxing into Nick's touch. Encouraged, Nick gave his shoulder a squeeze, eliciting a sigh of contentment from Nate._ _

__A few minutes of work in the bathroom did a world of good for Nate, who appeared clean, refreshed, and a little more relaxed by the time Ellie and Nick had dinner on the table._ _

__The naan and curry were exactly as good as they smelled, and soon Ellie was telling the full story of the awful woman from the shop, and Nick was able to recount his conversation with Nat after his encounter with schnauzer-woman. The bottle of wine dwindled in short order._ _

__Nate bounced back, and a small lull in the conversation prompted a volley of questions directed at Nick. Everything from how long he'd lived in New York (“Until I went to college at eighteen.”) to whether or not he liked pets in general, or just Sausage (“Please don't get me any surprise hamsters.”) and finally to his work as a detective._ _

__It was uncannily like being directly under Piper's scrutiny early in their friendship. Except this time there was the added terror of feeling like he was applying for a job as Nate's boyfriend. And the questions _kept coming._ Ellie's gaze flicked back and forth between them, and periodically she tried to redirect the conversation. But it was when Nate asked him, casually, what the worst thing he'd seen as a detective was, that Nick's patience snapped. _ _

__“Dunno,” he said sharply. “What's the worst thing you saw in Afghanistan?”_ _

__And Nate paled._ _

__“Oh,” said Ellie softly._ _

__“No,” said Nate shakily. “You're right. It was a shitty question, and I've been a shitty guest, dragging my bad day--bad last few days--in here with me. How'd you--?”_ _

__“How'd I know you were in Afghanistan?” said Nick. “Nobody is invisible on the internet these days. I had your name, and that you were in the Marines. I knew you and Ellie fell out of contact for a while after school. It was pretty simply to track down a fair amount of information. Though you might be relieved to know I stopped after the basics.”_ _

__“This is not going well,” said Ellie softly, addressing the comment somewhere in the air between them._ _

__“You _researched_ me?” said Nate, aghast. “I'm not sure if I'm offended or flattered. But it's probably less weird than what I just did. Maybe.”_ _

__Nick shrugged. He itched to light a cigarette. At his feet, the dog whined. “Maybe. Might be a shade too cautious about people. But a long time as a cop can do that. Fifteen years, if you're still sitting there taking notes on my life. But it occurred to me that you were asking a lot of questions without giving much of anything away about yourself. And that's odd, because most people's favorite topic is themselves. So I thought, either this guy is hiding something, or he's got reason to be cautious as well. I did just enough research to figure it was likely the second, and decided you could show your hand when you were good and damn ready.” He refilled his glass with the last of the wine, and gave Nate a tight little smile. “So I figure we've got two options. Either we both apologize and act like decent human beings, or we struggle through the rest of this date—is it a date, because I don't have the foggiest idea where we stand?--and I walk you to your car, and do our best to forget about this fiasco.”_ _

__Wide brown eyes with just the first hints of fine lines at the corners stared at him for several long moments, then darted to the side. “I think it's a date,” Nate muttered._ _

__A muscle jumped in Nick's jaw, and he dropped his face into his hands. “Well, thank Christ we've got that all cleared up,” he said, and his shoulders started to shake with laughter._ _

__“Jeeze,” said Ellie. “I'm going to get some more rice. See if you two can manage to be friends again by the time I get back to the table. I'll take my time.”_ _

__“I've got a sharp damn tongue on me sometimes,” offered Nick._ _

__“Yeah, I see that. I kinda like it, I think. I can be kind of... Well. I acted like a shit. And we're both kind of paranoid, aren't we?”_ _

__“Mmm. A bit,” said Nick. He took a sip of his wine. “With, I think, good reason.” He locked gazes with Nate. “We okay?”_ _

__“I... yeah. I mean, I still think you're interesting and funny. And I'm still kind of medium undressing you in my head? So that's probably a good sign.”_ _

__“No undressing at the table,” called Ellie. “That's how tender bits get burning hot curry on them.”_ _

__“She makes a good point,” said Nate._ _

__“It would probably be kinda forward to get naked before dessert on any dinner date,” said Nick._ _

__Ellie put her plate back onto the table, and did the little smoothing-the-skirt-in-back thing Nick admired in women as she sat. “Have we decided this is a date?” she asked archly. “I'm excited I wore the good lipstick, then.” She patted her lips with a napkin, and turned it around to show it was clean._ _

__“Well, well,” said Nick._ _

__“There goes my dream of lipstick on my collar,” said Nate, mock-forlorn._ _

__“Men,” said Ellie. “Can't make 'em happy.”_ _

__“I beg to differ,” said Nick. “I'm full of curry, and sitting with a woman who has just made clear her plans include kissing me at some point. If that isn't cause to be happy, I don't know what is.”_ _

__A foot bumped his under the table in what seemed to him to be an affectionate manner, and for the first time in his life, he had cause to wonder whose it was._ _

__“Can we play twenty questions again, but this time friendly-like?” said Ellie. “How about I ask a question, and you both get to answer. And then somebody else asks a question, and that way it's still getting-to-know-you but without the interrogation lights being in your eyes. Yeah?”_ _

__“Works for me,” said Nick, and Nate nodded._ _

__“Okay,” she said. “How about- first crush? Who was it, and what happened?”_ _

__“First real crush?” said Nate. “Tommy Romines, grade school. I thought his hair looked sooo silky. And he was funny. And like most of my early boy-crushes, likely straight as an arrow. First girl crush would be my fifth grade teacher. She smelled like warm baked goods, and had a smile that I thought was just for me. Hot for teacher.”_ _

__“Oooh,” said Ellie. “The little blonde teacher? She was so sweet! Miss... Sinclair! I didn't have her for homeroom, but I did for English. She gave me a copy of _My Side of the Mountain_ , and I totally wanted to run away to the Catskills. Now Nick.”_ _

__“Hrm. I'm sure there were plenty in school. But how about this: my first literary crush.”_ _

__“Sounds awkward,” said Nate. “I'm all ears.”_ _

__“Shush,” said Ellie. “Don't be ridiculous. Crushes on imaginary people are totally legitimate. Especially when you're coming of age, and everything you read or watch seems so important, and it's all sort of writ large.”_ _

__Nick raised his wine glass to her. “Yep. So, anyway – my crush? Atticus Finch.”_ _

__Ellie gave a strangled little shriek. “Oh my gosh! That's so perfect; I love it! Book Atticus, or Gregory Peck Atticus?”_ _

__“They're one and the same in my imagination,” said Nick. “I can't even be certain, looking back, if I saw the movie or read the book, first. But there you go.”_ _

__“I love it,” said Nate. “You next, Nick.”_ _

__“Alright. In keeping with questions about the distant past: What did you want to be when you grew up?”_ _

__“Ohhh,” said Ellie. “I wanted to be a shark veterinarian for a while. Then an archaeologist. Because Harrison Ford, wow. By high school I wanted to be a writer.”_ _

__“Wait, go back,” said Nate. “Shark vet?”_ _

__“I read this book about a woman who was a ichthyologist in the forties and fifties I think? Anyway, what I took away from it was that Shark Vet was a viable career option.”_ _

__“Magnificent,” said Nate. “Me, it changed every year, practically. I remember vividly wanting to be a garbage man as a kindergartener, and my mom being totally appalled. But who wouldn't want to ride hanging on the back of a big truck? I think I wanted to be a pilot for a while, until I realized I have no head for heights. Racecar driver. Goat farmer, because goats are hilarious. Special effects guy. The list goes on, really.”_ _

__“So basically, you wanted to be a jack-of-all-trades even then?” said Nick, bemused._ _

__“More or less. I promise I own no goats, by the way, but I do keep thinking about getting a place where I can keep chickens.”_ _

__“Noted. You next, Nate.”_ _

__“First job. How about that?”_ _

__“You already know mine, I think,” said Ellie. “I worked at the movie theater as the girl who dispensed extra butter, heart problems, and sadness. I liked the free movies, and I hated everything else about that job. I wanted to be a roller-skating waitress at Sonic. Which I was, later. Then a real waitress, which I sucked at, and then as a barmaid once I turned 21. I got good tips there, at least. I also worked a few hours a week on campus as Phone Bitch in the bursar's office.”_ _

__“Phone Bitch?” said Nate, before Nick could quite gather his thoughts on the matter._ _

__“As in, if there was an angry student or parent on the line, they would get passed off to me. I was sort of a dumping ground for unpleasantness. And they kept leaving me callback notes for the people they'd managed to scrape off the phone. It was gross, but it kept the lights on.” She wrinkled her nose. “Frankly, my days as Phone Bitch kinda put today in perspective.”_ _

__“Yaay for perspective,” said Nate weakly. “What about you, Nick?”_ _

__“Odd-jobs guy and register kid at my auntie and uncle's book store,” said Nick. “I'm actually not even sure how old I was when I started, because basically if it was after school, or a weekend, or summer, I was there. They raised me,” he elaborated._ _

__Nate opened his mouth, and the foot that had been cozying up to Nick's moved suddenly, and Nate winced. “So you grew up in a bookstore?” said Ellie, cool as anything. “I can just imagine you as a serious little kid, reading behind the register.”_ _

__“I was a ridiculously serious kid,” said Nick. “Except when I was a sharp-tongued little brat. That hasn't really gotten better. I was the kid who got into fights because he couldn't keep his smart mouth shut.”_ _

__“Did you usually win?” asked Nate. Were his eyes on Nick's, or on his mouth? He couldn't be sure._ _

__“I won enough,” said Nick._ _

__“I'm having trouble imagining you fighting,” said Ellie. “As a kid, I mean. I guess when you were a police officer you must have had to fight sometimes.”_ _

__“Yep,” he said. “Too much, it seems like.”_ _

__“Can I ask you a question?” said Nate abruptly. “I know it isn't my turn. But...”_ _

__“Sure,” said Nick. “Can't promise I'll answer, but you can sure ask.”_ _

__“Do you like talking about when you were a cop, or not? I can't get a real read on it. Aside from the shitty thing I asked you a few minutes ago, I mean.” He shrugged uncomfortably. “Sorry.”_ _

__“I do and I don't. Best years of my life were spent in uniform, and then as a detective. So it's not that the memories are bitter, exactly, but...”_ _

__“You miss it,” said Ellie softly._ _

__“Got it in one, doll.” He stood, and picked up her plate and Nate's, one on top of the other. “How about this? Circle of Questions gets suspended till after the movie. I'm going to grab a quick smoke, and then we can watch, if that's okay by you two.”_ _

__“Sounds good,” said Ellie. The only warning he got was a little twinkle in her eyes, and she stood on tip-toes to brush a kiss against his lips. “Stay warm out there.”_ _

__“You know we're in Georgia--” began Nate._ _

__“Nate, you're an idiot,” said Ellie fondly. They were still squabbling when Nick slipped out the door, Sausage's leash in hand._ _

__* * * * *_ _

__

__To Ellie's delight, the movie Nick had picked was _Singin' in the Rain_. Nate had never seen it, but he laughed at all the best lines, and relaxed against Nick's side. Ellie sprawled out, her knees hooked over the arm of the couch, and her head resting on Nick's leg. And after a while, he found he had an arm over Nate's shoulder, and his good hand on Ellie's soft hair. _ _

__Twice, he heard the distant sound of his cell phone in the bedroom, but he wasn't terribly inclined to go answer it. Likely Piper had just noticed his call from earlier. To be honest, he wasn't terribly inclined to get up at any point in the foreseeable future. But eventually the film ended, and the DVD returned to the main screen. “That was great,” murmured Nate against his shoulder._ _

__“I love that movie,” said Ellie, stretching. The stretch pushed her a little further into Nick's lap, and she sighed happily when Nick took it as an opportunity to run his fingers through her curls. “You're forgiven for not picking a black and white movie like I suggested.”_ _

__“How about _Bringing up Baby_ next time?” said Nick. “Black and white, Cary Grant, Katherine Hepburn, more dirty innuendo than you can shake a stick at.”_ _

__“I don't know that one,” said Nate._ _

__“At last we find an area our jack-of-all-trades is deficient in: great cinema. It's a screwball comedy. You'll like it,” said Ellie. “I propose I cook a pot roast for next time.”_ _

__Nate groaned. “You're going to spoil us.”_ _

__“Not fair for you to cook every time we get together,” said Nick._ _

__“Whatever,” said Ellie. “I get to show off my mad cooking skills, and we all get to eat. What else could be better?”_ _

__“Letting one of us treat you?” said Nate, and Nick nodded._ _

__Ellie scrunched up her face. “How about you let me do one of my favorite things in the world in peace, misters?”_ _

__“Your faaaavorite thing?” asked Nate._ _

__“Ugh, that leer!” cried Ellie. “You're awful.” But she reached up and booped him on the nose, complete with sound effect._ _

__“Awful is one of the things I do best,” said Nate, all mock seriousness until he tried to nip Ellie's finger. She snatched it back, laughing._ _

__And in the next room, the phone rang again._ _

__Nick groaned as Ellie swung her feet to the floor. “Go get your phone, Nick. Someone's trying hard to get ahold of you. I gotta run freshen up, anyway.”_ _

__“Boo,” said Nate, but Nick stood._ _

__“Fine, fine. I'll get rid of whoever it is. Probably Piper.”_ _

__“Tell her I said something repulsively lewd to you, and you're considering throwing me out,” called Nate as Nick walked to the bedroom._ _

__The phone had rung to voicemail by the time Nick got to it, but his brow furrowed as he looked at the missed call log. Jackson x 3, it read._ _

__Nick's blood ran cold._ _

__He closed his door gently, and called him back._ _

__“Christ, Valentine, where've you been? Nevermind. You need to know that Connor Marshall got out on bail earlier. His momma finally turned up and dredged up a bail bondsman to spring him from county.”_ _

__“ _Damn_ ,” said Nick. “El's taken out a restraining order, had him served in jail, but...”_ _

__“Right,” said Jackson. “Guy's an idiot with a grudge. Wanted to make sure you had a heads up. I'm stuck on duty until midnight, but I'm going to swing by and take a look around on my break and after my shift. Call me if you need anything, but you might want to call 911 first; I'm halfway across the damn county right now. She gonna be able to keep her head together?”_ _

__“She's a tough cookie,” said Nick._ _

__“Val,” he said, and this time his voice was gruff. “Are you going to be able to keep your head together?”_ _

__“Sure, Jackie. Sure. Listen. Thanks for the word. I'm going to go let her know. Keep safe out there.”_ _

__“You too, man.”_ _

__He slid the phone into his pocket, and after a few moment's hesitation, made a brief stop at his nightstand before he headed back to the living room._ _

__“So, what night you you want to do pot roast and why do you have a gun Nick?” said Nate._ _

__He put the gun down on the island between the kitchen and living room. “Ellie,” he said gently, and by the time her eyes met his, he saw that she already knew. It broke his heart. “Connor just got out on bail. His mother paid it.”_ _

__She closed her eyes ever so briefly. “Are you planning on shooting him if he comes here?”_ _

__It wasn't the question he expected. “If I have to.”_ _

__“To death?” she asked in a small voice._ _

__“If I have to,” he said again._ _

__“I bought a stun gun-” she started, but Nate and Nick were shaking their heads before she could finish._ _

__“No way,” said Nate. “Anybody who's determined can keep going after getting hit with a stun gun. For that matter, after being shot, which is why you _keep shooting_.”_ _

__“Doll,” said Nick. “I've been tasered as part of my police training. And I've been shot, too. And I promise you, being shot was a hell of a lot worse.”_ _

__“Besides,” said Nate. “A stun gun is a handheld weapon. If that fool ex of yours gets close enough for you to use it, there's already a problem. Carry the thing, but be ready to scream and run as fast as you can, because God knows he might keep coming at you.”_ _

__Her eyes flicked between them, then down. “'kay,” she said softly, and took a deep breath. “Nick? Where'd you get shot?”_ _

__He blew out a slow breath. “Gut and thigh. Missed the femoral artery.”_ _

__“You got gut-shot?” said Nate. “Jesus.”_ _

__“Why?” said Nick. “Angling to see an interesting scar?”_ _

__Ellie colored. “There's not a right answer to that. Because seeing you shirtless is definitely an...interest of mine. Yes. But it isn't out of morbid curiosity, exactly. I just... with the gun out, I... It terrifies me to think of you getting shot. And the idea that you're getting out a gun with the intent to use it if necessary on my behalf is awful.” He had a half-second to wonder if she still had feelings for her ex, and then she took another deep breath, and said, “I just don't want you to get hurt again, and the idea that it could be because of me...”_ _

__“Doll. I don't have any plans to do anything stupid, believe me. But if that idiot comes through that door, I will use deadly force if I've gotta. Trust me, I've got no interest in getting hurt again,” he said grimly._ _

__She closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them. “Okay,” she said. “Okay.”_ _

__“Y'all wouldn't be averse to me staying the night, would you?” asked Nate. “I can sleep on the couch, but with me having no phone... I'm going to sleep a hell of a lot easier on that lumpy couch than I would at home, worrying about you two.”_ _

__He shared a glance with Ellie, and at her almost imperceptible head-tilt, he nodded. “Welcome to stay,” he said. “But I take umbrage at your slight against my sofa.”_ _

__“Your sofa should be shot to put it out of its misery,” said Ellie firmly. “There's some sort of bar of evil along the back that was placed there by satan to torment us.”_ _

__“I like that couch,” said Nick. “I've had it since I moved to Boston.”_ _

__“Oh my God. It's your couch from college. Nick, I will take you to Ikea myself and help you find a couch that isn't just about old enough to drink,” said Ellie._ _

__“Look, I'm just a poor artist,” said Nate. “But even I know there are many wonderful couches at reasonable rates on Craigslist.”_ _

__“I got it out of a classified ad originally,” he protested. “And--”_ _

__“Oh no,” said Ellie. “It's his _second hand_ couch from college. It may actually be old enough to drink.”_ _

__“Terrible people,” said Nick. “Maligning a perfectly innocent couch. It's survived worse than your insults.”_ _

__“That I believe,” said Nate. “Just looking at it, I can tell it's been through a lot.”_ _

__“It has character,” said Nick. “Like me.”_ _

__“I like you a lot more than I like the couch,” said Ellie, wrapping her arms around his middle._ _

__“There's good character, and bad,” said Nate. “Well. What do you say we watch another movie? If I'm staying over we might as well settle in.”_ _

__“Works for me. I'll wash up from dinner real quick, and then we can start.”_ _

__Nate shook his head. “I'll do the washing up. Least I can do in exchange for a really amazing curry.”_ _

__“You charmer,” said Ellie. “I believe you may yet turn out to be civilized. I'm going to have to call your mom and offer my compliments. Just for that, you get dessert. It's a bread pudding with hard sauce.”_ _

__Nate leaned in and kissed her cheek. “Saint Ellie of the fancy dessert. Bless you.”_ _

__“That's not a fancy desert,” she said. “I'll show you a really fancy desert sometime. Heck, at Christmas, maybe I'll make you two a bouche de noel. That's a complicated damn desert.”_ _

__She busied herself in the kitchen serving up bread pudding, and carefully drizzling the sauce over it. But what stuck with Nick was the idea that she was already making plans with them for the future._ _

__

__* * * * *_ _

__

__He woke from a deep sleep with a start. The television cast a cool glow on the room, and Ellie's breath was soft against his shoulder. She stirred, and on his other side, Nate awoke with a jerk._ _

__And then the sound that had woken him came again—a furious pounding on the door._ _

__“ELLIE!” came the scream._ _

__He shot to his feet, crossed to the kitchen counter in a few long strides, and then the gun was in his hand._ _

__“Oh my God,” whispered Ellie. “Connor.”_ _

__And with one powerful kick, the door came down._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't hate me for the cliffhanger oh nooo
> 
> Here is Ellie's (LillyoftheAlley's) recipe for Rosemary Ginger Shortbread.
> 
> I feel that Ellie, like me, watches a lot of Great British Bake-off.
> 
> Preheat oven to 300*F  
> 1 cup softened butter  
> ½ cup plain old white sugar (with a little extra for dusting the top)  
> 21/2 cups flour  
> ¼ cup (approximately?) candied/crystalized ginger, diced into bitty little pieces  
> 2-3 sprigs fresh rosemary
> 
> Remove fresh rosemary from stem, and dice into slightly smaller rosemary bits
> 
> Cream together butter and sugar in a mixer or by hand if you're into slight masochism.
> 
> Throw flour in, along with the rosemary and ginger. Mix until the entire thing is like slightly crumbly clay. 
> 
> Press mixture into a 9x13 pan evenly. Don't worry about greasing the pan, because there is an entire cup of butter in this bad boy.
> 
> Take a fork and prick the top, like go to town on that sucker. Then sprinkle more sugar on the top, shaking off any excess.
> 
> Bake 40-45 minutes, until just baaaarely golden brown at the edges.   
> TA-DA


	5. Lawyers, Guns, and Money

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from the song by the late Warren Zevon.
> 
> Trigger warning: violence, discussion of domestic violence. If you are unsure if you should read this chapter, please leave a comment or send me a message through my Tumblr. I'll be happy to discuss in more detail/provide a summary if needed.
> 
> Tumblr: https://www.tumblr.com/blog/thelillyofthealley

Moments seemed to crystallize in a way they hadn't for Nick in a long time. 

Shards of the door frame flew into the room, but his eyes didn't track them, didn't follow the arc of the debris even though a little part of him was yelling that it was headed for Ellie. 

The door flew back, hit the wall, and bounced back toward Connor. He adjusted the angle of his gun to track his target. 

He had a fleeting moment to remember a long-ago instructor who'd made him learn to shoot ambidextrously as well as two-handed.

The door was flung open again. Connor locked eyes with him, and Nick heard himself bellow _Freeze!_ and for just a moment he was certain Connor would do the right thing, the smart thing, and back down. 

He was wrong. 

With a cry, Connor charged and sprung at him, and Nick--

\--Nick pulled the trigger. 

Did someone scream? There was a roaring in his ears in the fraction of a second before Connor's shoulder-tackle took them both down in a heap, and the gun was trapped between them. Hands fumbled at the gun, and he jerked his arm hard to the side, out from under Connor; he tried to roll, but couldn't get any leverage. There were fingers twisted in his shirt, a hand still reaching for the gun, and Nick brought the Colt down hard, glancing a blow off the side of Connor's head. There was a bellow of rage, a shadow fell over them for an instant, and in a blur of red a chair crashed into Connor's back. 

It dazed him for long enough for Nick to shove him Connor off of him, but the man rallied and kicked as Nick managed to get up onto his knees, sending the gun spinning across the floor toward the kitchen. Nate bolted for the gun, and just for an instant, Nick's gaze darted for Ellie.

Which was, he discovered, a nearly fatal mistake. 

There was a knife clipped to Connor's belt, a knife that it turned out he could pull and lock back in a motion smooth enough, fast enough, to be terrifying even without considering that knife was headed for him in a thrust. 

He reached across himself with his good hand, and grabbed at Connor's arm, pulling it forward and down as he twisted to the side, sending Connor sprawling. And Ellie, god bless her, stomped on the man's wrist. When Connor rolled to the side, the knife stayed behind, and Ellie kicked it away and into the hallway.

He could hear his pulse, and over the roar of blood and the shock of adrenaline, he was certain Nate was yelling something. He clambered over the bloodied Connor, trying to secure his hands, trying to keep him from struggling. It was a good move, a move that had been drummed into him by trainers and experience. 

It was a move for a man with two goddamn hands. 

Connor struggled, flailed, tried to push Nick off. “ _Ellie! Help me!_ ” Connor screamed, and Nick Valentine saw red. 

The first blow he brought down on Connor's face was, in all his years of law enforcement, in a youth spent getting into minor scraps as a symptom of having a smart mouth, in all his life, the first one he'd felt visceral pleasure from. He'd wanted to hit people before, needed to hit people before, and even regretted a few blows here and there. But he had never felt burning hot rage drive his fist home.

But by the time he heard Nate shouting his name, by the time Ellie flung her arms around him, and yanked him away, he felt nothing at all. 

This time, Connor stayed down. 

Time seemed to rush back in, and suddenly he was nothing but aware of his circumstances. Ellie leaning him against the couch. Sausage frantically nosing him, crying, pushing his body against him in a heavy lean. There was blood on his shirt, blood down the shirt and tie he'd carefully selected for the evening. Blood smeared on the floor, over his hands and on Ellie's arms-

He reached out with bloodied hands, turned her arms over, frantically pushed up her sleeves and found nothing but the half-healed scar from the burn Connor had given her. 

“Nick, Nick, oh God-” 

“Stay down! Don't you goddamn move!”

“Nick, look at me, breathe, slow breaths, Nick-”

“Ellie, call 911-”

When had the dog left? When had Ellie's hands cupped his face? He blinked, and the motion seemed too slow. She was speaking to him again, but he shook his head, shook her hands away in his panic. The room was too bright, the questions too loud, and the fury in Nate's voice made him flinch. 

He heard her make the call. Heard her explain in frantic detail what had happened. There was something he needed to tell her. Something urgent. His voice wouldn't work; his mouth opened, but no sound came out. The dog returned, dropped something in his lap, and for a moment, he was bewildered, wondered why now, of all times, his dog would bring a toy to throw. But it wasn't at all. It was the kit from his nightstand, and he turned it over wonderingly, unable to quite process what he was supposed to do with it. 

He blinked. “El.” His voice was a hoarse croak, and it seemed somehow incredible that she could hear him over the persistent roar that seemed to nearly drown out all other sound. 

“Ellie,” he tried again. “Responding officers need to know...”

She squatted next to him, so that her eyes were even with his. “What, Nick? What do I need to tell them?”

“Step one is secure the scene,” he said, and he grimaced in frustration at her bewildered look. “Nate. Gun out. Service dog. Tell them.”

“Oh. Oh! Ma'am, did you hear that? My friend is holding a gun on the man who broke in. Please tell the officers not to shoot him. Please don't shoot us. My other friend, my other friend, he's a cop. He was a cop. He's got a service dog now. Tell them there's a huge dog. Gun. Huge dog. Don't shoot us. Okay bye-bye.”

He heard himself laughing before he quite realized it was happening, and Ellie's wide-eyed stare sobered him. “Not supposed to hang up on 911,” he said. “And. 'Okay bye-bye?'”

“Oh my God, Nick, what the hell do I know? I just freaked out. Do I call them back?”

“Nah,” he said. “Nah.”

She carefully took the leather bag Sausage had brought from his hands. “Nick, what's this?”

“Kit,” he said. He tried to look her in the eye again, but for some reason his gaze kept sliding past her, trying to find Connor. But she'd positioned herself squarely between them, with her back to her ex. He wanted to scream at her, to tell her no, to never, ever, turn her back on a violent offender. But again the words wouldn't come.

She unzipped the kit, and peered inside. “Oh,” she breathed. “Kit. Okay.” She pulled out the water bottle inside, then the prescription bottle, and peered at the label. Her fingers, somehow still clean, unbloodied, twisted the top open and shook a pill out into the lid. “Here,” she said, and he stared at her. “Open up,” she said, and when he tried to reply, she tipped the lid into his mouth. “Drink,” she said next, and held the bottle of water to his lips. 

He swallowed, and grimaced. “Hate these,” he said. “Leave me... fuzzy.”

“Do they help?” she asked, her voice small. 

“Guess so.”

“I'll take care of you,” she said. “I'll take care of you, okay, Nick? But to do that, I need you to calm down. You're breathing too fast, still. I don't want you to pass out, okay?”

“Okay,” he echoed.

“Walk me through what's about to happen,” she said. “Can you do that?”

“Gotta secure the scene. They'll take the gun. Probably cuff us.”

“Christ,” she said. “Are we going to get arrested?”

He shrugged, and for the first time, he realized his shoulder was killing him, that the back of his head hurt like hell. He must have winced, because Ellie touched his cheek gently. “Stay with me, okay?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Paramedics will be here. Don't let them take me to the hospital, El. Don't want to go.”

“Nick. You might need to-”

“ _No,_ ” he said again. He shook his head, and it seemed to him that reality lagged a half-second behind the movement. He shut his eyes tightly, trying to clear the cobwebs. 

“Keep walking me through it, Nick. What else do I need to know?” 

“Dunno,” he said.

“C'mon, Nick. I'm sure you've got more advice in there.”

“Did I kill him?” he asked.

“No,” said Ellie. “Think you broke his nose. And, I mean, shot him.” She let out a shaky breath. “You scared me.”

“Yeah,” he said again. “Sorry.” He stared at her phone for a moment, squinting, trying to get words to form. “Call...Jackson,” he said. “Need a cop I know. Or maybe a lawyer.”

“Do you have a lawyer?” She touched the side of his face. “Nick,” she said again. “Do you have a lawyer you want me to call?”

_The tall one grabbed him by the face, and gave him a little shake. “You want your one phone call, man? Too bad. Cops don't get one call.” He flung the cell phone into the depths of the warehouse, where it fell with a clatter. He raised his gun. “Prob'ly don't got no love ones to call anyway.” He pushed Nick down to the ground, and sheer agony shot through him, leaving him insensate. When he forced his eyes open, they were almost gone, pulling the door closed behind them. He couldn't figure why they hadn't shot him again, why they'd just left him until the wail of sirens drew a little closer. The idiots must have tripped the warehouse's silent alarm. Did he wait, conserve his energy to cry out when someone came looking?_

_“hell with it,” he huffed, and started crawling for the door. Behind him, he left a trail of blood, a long smear of crimson, slippery on the concrete floor. Legs wanted to work, but the wound in his thigh felt like being stabbed each time he drug the leg along after him. Arms went first. Bloody handprints in the moonlight coming through the high windows. Then the good leg. Drag the bad one. There. That made twice. Three times. Four._

_“keep going,” he whispered. “keep...” Outside he heard the officers talking, heard the buzz and click of their radios, and he tried to yell, tried to scream, but he couldn't seem to get enough air._

_He dropped to his side, and when the waves of pain and nausea stopped, he groped around him, found a piece of scrap sheet metal, and banged his fist on it weakly, making it flap and clatter against the floor._

_The chatter outside stopped. The door opened, and a flashlight beam cut a thread through the darkness. “officer... down,” he rasped, and suddenly it was the funniest goddamn thing he'd ever heard. He was still laughing when the ambulance arrived._

He shuddered. “He's in my phone. Ben Onobanjo. Call Jackson first.”

She fished his phone out of his pocket with a minimum of embarrassment, and made the calls. She kept her voice low, and either the sound of her voice or the medication she'd put in his mouth was enough that his breathing started to slow, his head started to clear. 

When she was done, she put the phone on the arm of the couch, and smoothed his hair with her knuckles. “Okay. Your friend is on his way. And your lawyer.”

“Lawyer's a friend, too. Just a friend with a price tag attached.”

She cracked a tiny smile. “Sounds like a hell of a friend,” she teased.

“Hell of a lawyer, too. Vicious prick with a big laugh. You'll like him.”

“I-” she said, but they heard sirens, followed shortly by feet pounding on the staircase. “I'll be right back,” she said, and stepped out into the hallway. 

Sausage filled the gap she left, crowding him even more closely, and Nick did his best to take slow breaths, to concentrate on anything but his panic, his pain, on the metallic smell of blood that seemed to permeate the air of his apartment. 

“Um,” he heard Ellie say in the hallway. “Hello. My friend is holding a gun on the person that broke into our apartment. Don't shoot him. He's just making sure-- oh, okay-” she said, as the officers barged past her.

One of them looked familiar, a rookie during Nick's all-too-brief time in the Atlanta PD. He couldn't recall her name for the life of him. She had short red hair in a pixie cut, and the sort of tiny, upturned nose that made people think she was cute. Vague memories suggested she was a real hardass. The other was an older patrol officer, dark-skinned with a shaved head. “Put the gun down!” bellowed Officer Boopable Nose. “Slowly, lay the gun down! Back away! Down on your knees, and lay face-down on the ground with your hands behind your head.”

He watched, nodding, as the other officer secured the firearm, and briefly frisked Nate while his partner covered him. “Perp there had a knife,” said Nick, pointing to the moaning man on the floor. “Got kicked into the hall, maybe.”

“Saw it,” said the older officer. “'Perp?' You been in trouble with the law a lot, man?” His partner spoke into her radio, and Nick heard a second set of sirens approaching. 

“Nah,” said Nick. “'m a cop. Was a cop.” He held up his hand, grimacing when he saw the mangled state of his prosthetic. “Got hurt.”

“Shit,” said Boopable Nose. “You're Nick Valentine. I kicked in money toward your dog.”

“Thanks,” said Nick, tiredly. “He's a good dog.”

More officers arrived, and briefly, life was chaotic as they secured his gun, helped paramedics load the injured, but still-awake Connor onto a gurney and get him down the stairs. The extra paramedics checked Nick over and recommended he go the hospital to get checked out, but saw no signs of concussion. Eventually, they let Nate up, but cuffed him, Ellie, and after some brief conferring, cuffed Nick's good hand behind his back to his belt. 

Ellie leaned her head over on Nick's shoulder. “I'm the worst date ever,” she said under her breath, and he huffed a little laugh. 

On his other side, Nate looked like sheer misery. “You know you don't have to say anything to the police, right?” asked Nick. “In fact, it might be better not to. My lawyer is on his way.”

“Yeah,” said Nate. “Are they going to arrest us? I super don't need an arrest record.”

“I don't-” said Nick, but the arrival of his lawyer cut him off.

“My friends!” boomed the enormous Nigerian. “My friends, why is my client handcuffed? He is a decorated former police officer--nearly killed in the line of duty! It is an outrage to treat so shabbily a man so honorable!” He skirted wide around the puddle and smears of blood on the floor, and bent low to face Nick. “Are you all right, Detective? Have you been injured?”

“Got a bang to the head,” said Nick. “Shoulder's a little screwed, too, but nothing serious, I think.” Under his breath, he said, “Ben, I need out of these damn cuffs.”

“Understood,” said Ben, in what he probably thought was a whisper.

“Sirs,” he said, turning to the small crowd of officers. “And madam. My client has post traumatic stress disorder, for which he takes medications and has a service dog. Can we agree that handcuffing him will serve no further purpose now that the scene is secured by so many fine officers?”

There was a brief discussion, but in the end, Jackson's arrival decided it. “Uncuff him,” said Jackson. He was a blond man with a receding hairline and just enough of a belly to look unthreatening. “That's my old partner.”

They were uncuffed and standing in short order, and only then did the story begin to be explained. Jackson told the first part, telling the older black officer (Michaels), who seemed to be in charge, about the previous arrest and his calls to Nick that evening. From there, they were separated, with Ellie being moved to the hallway, and Nate to Nick's bedroom. Nick, for his part, explained what had happened as plainly as he could, with Onobanjo nodding along, and stopping him from time to time to confer briefly. 

Michaels took Nick's statement efficiently, and without much in the way of commentary. He was, Nick thought, likely a good officer without the imagination for detective work. Still, he was thorough, drawing Nick out with a few brief questions. Ellie and Nate each took a little longer to be questioned, and then the three officers conferred. A few photos. And as suddenly as it had began, it was over, and the majority of the officers departed. 

Jackson got the door back in place with the help of the landlord, who had been lurking on the staircase since the police arrived. The two men agreed that the door would hold until morning, when the hardware stores opened. Jackson produced biohazard bags and started the cleanup on the blood. He gave a spare bag to Ellie and Nick, and after spraying the hardwood floor with a bleach mixture and mopping it up, declared it good enough. 

“The DA's gonna look everything over in the morning, Val, but I don't expect you'll see so much as the inside of a courtroom over this. Always the chance the idiot could sue, but it's pretty cut and dried self defense.” Jackson said. “Numbnuts imprisons and beats his girl, follows her to the safe place she's found, attempts to break in, gets served with a restraining order in jail, gets out and tries the same damn thing again, but this time armed? You'd have to find a jury as stupid as he is to convict you on that.” 

In the hallway, Ellie slipped into the bathroom, her pajamas bundled under her arm. After a few moments, Nick heard the water come on, and realized his hearing was almost normal again. “I know,” he said. “Lotta ways this coulda gone way worse.”

“Nick,” said Jackson. “You still seeing that therapist?”

“Well,” said Nick. “Not so much lately.”

“How lately?” he asked sharply.

“Not since May,” said Nick. 

“Fuckwit,” said the detective. “Promise me you call when you get up tomorrow, and get an appointment with her or some other shrink. I don't care who. But I'm gonna call you as soon as I get up tomorrow, and if you don't have a pending appointment, I'm gonna be right back over here and up your ass until you call. Got it?”

“You're a pal, Jackie,” he said, and waved his hand at him. “I'll do it, though. But I tell you, the dog's helped.”

“Unless the dog has a PhD in untangling emotional bullshit, I don't wanna hear it.” He squinted. “Didn't wanna ask with the other officers around, but what the hell are you on? Your eyes don't look right. Don't think Michaels noticed. Or he pretended not to.”

“Benzos,” said Nick. “Only thing I'd taken before the shooting was my regular stuff. Sausage went and got my meds when I flipped. Damnedest thing. I knew he could do that; hell, I showed him where to find them when I brought him home, but I didn't really quite get...”

“Smart puppy,” said Jackson. “Had a dog once that I taught to get beer out of the fridge. He was probably underemployed as a bartender.” 

“Jackie-” said Nick. “Thanks. For everything.”

“If you hug me, I'm gonna get you charged with assault. You look like the end of _Carrie_.” 

“Get outta here, Jackson. Your shift must be almost over.”

“Yep. Murder hours are about up for the night.” He gave him an almost-wave. “Get some sleep.”

“Murder hours?” said Nate as the detective departed. 

“10pm to 3am are when most murders happen. Almost joined the statistic. God, I need a cigarette.”

Nate looked him up and down. “Uh. You might want to grab shower and change first.”

“Screw it,” said Nick. “I'll smoke out the bedroom window.” His feet didn't want to lead him right as he staggered toward the kitchen, and Nate walked behind him to steady him if need be. He washed his hand and arms up to the elbow, dropping the broken prosthetic into the biohazard bag. “Back down to one hand.”

“I'll make you a new one,” said Nate. “I can print it over the weekend and have it for you when I get out of work Monday.” 

“Thanks. I've, er. I've liked it pretty well. It's not perfect, but...”

“New one'll look even cooler,” said Nate. “Let's get you that cigarette.”

Nate followed just behind him again as he went down the hall to the bedroom, and sat on the edge of Nick's bed while he fumbled the window open one-handed. He sighed when the nicotine hit his system, and they sat in exhausted silence while Nick smoked and Nate did his best not to crane his neck around examining the room. 

“So...” said Nate. “How long have-”

“-I lived here?” finished Nick. “Three years.” He took another drag, and blew the smoke out the open window, taking care to keep it away from Sausage at his feet. “Got rid of most of what I owned before I left Boston. And a lot of what I did bring is still in the boxes under that tablecloth in the corner of the front room.”

“Oh,” said Nate. His brow furrowed as he thought, and Nick tapped the ash from his cigarette. “I'm going to bring you a piece of art,” he said, finally. “For the wall.”

“A piece of your art?” asked Nick, startled. 

“Maybe,” said Nate, and he managed a tired grin. “Could be somebody else's, though. I mean, what good is it having artist friends if I can't score cool stuff in trade and give it to the art-deprived?” 

“Huh,” said Nick, pleased. “Looking forward to seeing what you come up with.”

“That's it? No 'anything but the color red' or 'you know, I've always been partial to velvet Elvises?'”

“I feel like the plural may be “'Elvi,'” said Nick. “But no. Bring something that makes you happy, then tell me why it does.” He heard Ellie's shower go off, and finished his cigarette. He pulled a pair of pajama pants out of the closet, and hesitated. “You staying the night still?”

“Only if I get to sleep in the big-kid bed,” said Nate. His eyebrows raised as Nick tossed him the pair of drawstring pants. “Uh,” he said.

“Living room smells like blood and disinfectant,” said Nick. “And I don't want you to go.” He grabbed another pair for himself. “Rummage if you need anything else, a t-shirt or whatever.”

He nearly bumped into Ellie coming out of the shower. She was wearing pajamas with little blocky robots and flying saucers on them, and had her hair twisted into a towel. She smelled like vanilla and something warm and spicy. “Nate's in my bedroom,” he told her, and her eyebrows rose.

“So soon?” she asked sweetly. 

“If it makes you feel better, you can be, too,” he said, and if anything her brows went higher. 

He made it into the bathroom and closed the door before nearly falling over again, though, so that was a small success, at least. The dog had followed him in, but made himself scarce, positioning himself in the corner where he could keep a watchful eye on Nick. Outside, he heard a murmur of conversation, and to quell his desire to try to listen in, he turned on the shower. It probably wasn't even about him, anyway, he lied to himself as he peeled off blood-crusted clothes. It probably had nothing to do with his complete and utter meltdown, with his relentless beating of Connor, with--

He turned the water as hot as he could stand it, burned away the feeling of someone else's blood on his skin, scoured himself with soap, watched the water until it ran clear. Then he turned the water cold, and shivered and shuddered under it for too long. 

But there was still enough steam in the air when he got out that the little heart-and-arrow Ellie had left on the mirror reappeared. Was it only the day before when he'd discovered that? It hardly seemed possible. 

Getting into his clothes was trickier than he was expecting, for two reasons: the first was that his shoulder was already turning purple and blue, and the second was that the medication left him dizzy when he bent or moved too quickly. 

He knocked his shoulder into the doorframe coming out of the bathroom, and swore, causing the dog to lean against him from the other side to steady him. “Nick?” called Ellie, appearing in the hallway from his room.

“'M okay,” he said, and shook his head. 

Which turned out to be a mistake. 

“Ohhh no,” she said, and steadied him. “Nick? Is this usually how you react to your medication?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Pretty much. Told you I don't like them.” He leaned in and kissed her forehead. “You're sweet to ask, doll.” 

It was what he meant to say, at any rate. What actually came out was considerably more slurred. “Let's get you to bed, Nick,” she said. She slipped under his arm, and guided him to his bed, where Nate sat, wearing his pajama pants and one of his nearly infinite supply of tattered Boston PD t-shirts. It was a little tighter across the chest than it had been on Nick recently. “Hot damn,” he said. He dropped his head onto Nate's shoulder, and the other man jumped a little. 

“Nick,” said Ellie, “Is kinda high right now. And by high, I mean he's slurring and staggering.”

“Wow,” said Nate. “Uh. Are you sure it's okay for me to spend the night in here...? I don't want to impose, or take advantage, or...”

“Don't go,” said Nick, and it came out surprisingly strong and clear. “I dunno what we're doing here, yet. But I know I don't want either of you to go, and I kinda think you don't really want to be alone, either.”

Ellie cast an eye toward the bed. “Looks big enough for the three of us if nobody's real free with their elbows in the night or hogs the covers.”

“Mm,” said Nick. “Nate looks like a covers thief to me.” He let Ellie and Nate help him up again and leaned on Ellie while Nate pulled the covers back. 

Then it was just a matter of figuring out who slept where, of getting Nick into the bed in the middle without falling over. Nate slipped into bed last after turning out the lights. They were all, he thought, being so very careful of him—keeping their hands to themselves, trying to not bump or jostle or really even touch. 

They were silent in the darkness, but even though sleep kept encroaching, the painful awareness of the other two kept him on edge. When he let out a sigh, he swore he could feel them tense further. 

“Ya know,” he said, and even as a whisper, his voice seemed too loud in the dark. “I've been thinking.”

“Oh?” said Ellie. It was a nervous little sound. 

“Yep. When I was in therapy—which, as Jackson pointed out, I probably should still be—one thing the therapist told me is to look for bright spots in all the darkness.” He paused, then said, “And with this damn hand gone, I never have to worry about waking up with it all numb from sleeping on it while trying to spoon someone.”

Nate laughed. Better still, Ellie's laugh started with a snort, creating a cascade of laughter. It broke the tension, though, and Nate's foot bumped his. 

“Is that a request for cuddles?” asked Nate. “Because I think we should take a little vote. I'm in, so even if Ellie isn't, she's overruled.”

“Bullshit,” said Ellie. “You can't just make me cuddle.”

“No, but I can cuddle Nick since you decline,” he said. 

“Never said I was declining cuddles,” said Ellie primly. “I cuddle. I cuddle like a beast.”

“All talk, no action so far,” said Nate.

She rolled onto her side, and tucked her head against Nick's shoulder, drawing herself up against him with her knees bumping his thigh. Then she paused. “Nick?” she asked. “Not to be all talk or anything, but—when we were each on either side of you the other night you kinda freaked out. Is this going to be okay?”

“Hell if I know, doll, but I'm willing to give it a shot,” he said. “Here--” he slipped his arm under her neck to let her in closer, and gave her a peck on the forehead. Nate snuggled up as well, and somehow managed to adhere himself even more closely to Nick than Ellie had. 

“So-- we're doing this, then?” asked Ellie after a few moments. “We're all-three-of-us-dating? Or am I dating Nick and so is Nate? Does anybody have any kind of experience with whatever we're doing, or a frame of reference?”

“Ellie,” said Nick. “Remember the part where I'm high?”

He could feel her face screw up against his chest. “I know, but-” A long, shaky breath escaped from her, and Nick could feel Nate tense. Even without being able to see her, he could hear a woman on the brink of tears. “Everything is so damn weird right now. I'm sorry, Nick. I don't mean to... I don't even know what it is I don't mean to do. I'm just a mess. And I feel stupid to be freaking out about it right now given all the crazy stuff that happened tonight. Especially considering I feel like I ought to be trying to comfort you, and I ought to be apologizing for ever having Connor in my life in the first place, for nearly getting you two hurt or maybe even killed because of my crappy decisions.”

Clear thinking was not coming easily. What the hell did he even address first? He stalled by rubbing slow circles on her back, glad that his good hand was on Ellie's side. “There hasn't been a single instant where I've regretted opening that door for you, doll. Not one. I'm not one to say bad things happen for a reason. People kept telling me that kind of crap after Jenny died. I never wanted to hear that it had happened for a reason, or that she was in a better place, or that God had needed another angel. It made me furious—not at God—but at people for putting a tragedy on God's shoulders. I don't know what the answer to human suffering is. I don't think we suffer to be redeemed, or because we're intrinsically sinful, or because of predestination, or any of that, but... I think suffering just _is_. Maybe we suffer because it's a big, complex world. Because sometimes cells mutate, and you get cancer and die despite people holding your hand and praying to any god who will listen. People die and leave you; people betray you; people hurt you for fun or because they're screwed up in the head.” 

She heaved a little against him, holding back tears or surrendering to the first wave of them. His fingers trailed through her still-damp hair. “Sweetheart,” he said, and his voice was as earnest as he could make it. “I don't even know if what I just said made sense. I'm not happy I had to shoot someone. I'm real not happy I beat the hell out of him and lost my head. But I don't think it's your fault. And I'm working on a week of acquaintance here, but I'll bet Nate doesn't either.”

“Jesus,” said Nate. “No. It is _not_ your fault that any of this happened. I had to learn a long time ago to stop trying to take responsibility for other people being awful. I mean, I'm trying to learn that, anyway. Did he take you out to dinner the first time and go, 'Girl, I like long walks on the beach and beating women?'”

The sound she made was somewhere between a laugh and a hiccough. “No,” she said in a watery voice.

“And was he all like, 'My favorite band is Nickleback, and all my exes have restraining orders against me?'”

“No,” she laughed, and sniffed. “He acted really normal until I got a job, actually.”

“That's because that kind of person hates to loose control,” said Nick. “Let me guess. He made the money, you were dependent on him, and didn't feel like you could assert yourself because he held all the cards?”

She was silent for a moment. “I did fuck up,” she said. 

“No, he just took advantage of you. Because you tried to be extra helpful and good to him because you didn't have a job, right?”

“How do you know...?”

“Because he was running moves right out of the scumbag play book,” said Nick. “These people prey on any little weakness—and we all have something that can be played on—and they whittle away your self-worth until they've got you pared down to something they can handle. Well, he didn't fucking manage it with you, did he? You got the hell out. You took out the restraining order and never looked back. Hell, the first thing I know you did right was get a damn job so he couldn't use money to control you anymore.” 

“From my end? Both of you need to blame yourselves a lot less,” said Nate. “It's not that I don't get why you're upset—hell, I'm still shaking. But you both did what you had to do to protect yourselves. To protect us. And it's easy to say, well, I could've done this or that differently, but hindsight is like that. You got away from a monster, Ellie. And you put him down on the ground, Nick. I'm not saying it's time to throw confetti from the roof or anything, but shit. Let's make pancakes in the morning and be glad we're alive instead of freaking out because we aren't people who make perfect choices.”

“I like pancakes,” said Nick, and Ellie snorted again through her tears.

“You _are_ high,” said Ellie at the same time Nate reached across and touched her lightly on the side, saying, “I like your laugh, dork.”

“Huh,” said Nick. “I think we are, yeah.”

“We are what?” asked Ellie. 

“We're all dating, I think.” He opened his eyes, and up at the dimly lit ceiling as though it might offer advice or guidance. Down past the foot of the bed, he heard Sausage heave a huge dog sigh. 

“Okay,” said Nate quietly. “Cool.”

“That's it?” said Ellie. “'Cool?'”

“Yeah,” said Nate. “I think it's pretty cool. We'll work out the details in the morning.”

“Like what?” asked Nick. He tried to stifle a yawn.

“Like, I dunno,” mumbled Nate. “Like if we're supposed to tell other people, or keep it on the DL. Or, like, sex.”

“Borrowing tomorrow's troubles, aren't we?” asked Nick.

“That's what I mean,” said Nate. “We'll figure it out in the morning.”

Ellie snuggled in, and he adjusted his arm around her. “Pancakes and awkward talks. I love it.”

For a long time, silence stretched. Their breathing started to even out, and the tension eased out of Ellie as he petted her hair. “Ellie?” said Nick softly.

“Mmh?”

His voice was quiet, but on his other side, he felt Nate stir ever so slightly. “Did you hit Connor with a chair?”

“Yeah,” she said. “And it felt like Christmas morning.”

“Attagirl,” he said sleepily. “Attagirl.”


	6. Reasons to Love You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn't abandoned! I've always planned to return to this bugabear when things calmed down in my life, and here we are! 
> 
> So, uh, this is the chapter that earns the fic its rating. Enjoy responsibly. :)
> 
> The title is a song by Meiko, who is sweetly perfect for the end of this chapter.
> 
> (The character of Isabel Ramos is WAY fictional, and probably nothing like going to a real therapist. Be not afraid: she's abrasive with Nick because that's likely what he needs.

Isabel Ramos listened carefully.

Not attentively, it seemed. The greater part of her notes appeared to be doodles – a dinosaur eating a mid-size sedan appeared to feature prominently today – but she did listen carefully. She nodded, and paused in her doodling to scratch actual notes here and there, and listened to him report on his life without censure or disappointment or even a reprimand for disappearing from her office for five months, and then she casually cut to the core of him.

He wasn't sure if he liked that about her or not. 

“I have a few questions, Nick.”

“Yeah. I bet you do.” He scratched the dog's ears, and was rewarded with a happy grin. At least someone was happy, he thought. 

She arched an eyebrow. “Do you regret shooting Connor?”

“Should I?” he returned.

She shrugged easily. “Whether you should or not isn't exactly the issue, is it? It's whether you do that's interesting to me.”

“I'd think whether or not I should regret shooting a man is entirely the issue.”

Isabel laughed faintly. “You're all facts until I ask you how you feel about the events in your life, Nick. It should be a simple question, and yet you're avoiding it entirely. Why is that?”

“Because-” he hesitated. “Because I should feel bad and I don't. Not about the shooting; that was as simple as cause and effect. But beating the holy hell out of him and liking it? That, I should feel bad about.”

“I'm not certain there is a way you should or shouldn't feel about exhulting in keeping yourself alive and Ellie and Nate safe. Why don't we focus a bit there?”

“Why not,” he said. 

“You told me that what seems, essentially, to be polyamory is on the table. Was the focus more on that or on the events of the previous night the next morning?”

He drug his hand across his face. “Listen, I dunno, doc. We didn't talk about either at first. Just sort of slunk out of bed and brushed our teeth then made breakfast. Well, they made breakfast. El's a helluva cook, and Nate just sort of fell in as her sous-chef. Me, I unjammed the door and took the dog out.”

“And, what during and after breakfast?” she asked. “Surely you must have discussed some of it at some point?”

He hesitated. But in the end, he told her, even though turning over this brand new thing and looking at its soft belly made him squirm. It was something so new, so tender, that examining it too closely seemed as though it would make it evaporate into thin air. 

 

* * * * *

 

Nate had just finished washing the breakfast plates when Ellie reappeared from her room with a fresh print-out in her hands. “I printed out an article on polyamory,” she said, putting the papers down next to Nick's coffee, fetched from downstairs while he took Sausage out. “Now's the time to sit down and discuss like adults what on earth we're getting ourselves into, right?” she said in response to the carefully neutral look he gave her. “I mean,” she said, “I haven't done this before, have either of you?”

Nick picked up his glasses from the table, and then the sheaf of papers. “Well, no, doll. But I don't typically look to the internet for greater truths.”

“I didn't know anybody still printed things out,” said Nate.

“Oh, hush,” said Ellie. She took the dishrag from him and snapped it against his backside. “It's just that I like having paper copies to read over sometimes.”

“I understand,” said Nate with an air of supreme seriousness. “I hate trees, too.”

“Hush, Nate,” said Nick easily. “Come siddown. I'll let you catch up on the assigned reading as soon as I finish the first page.”

“Is it the assigned reading, or is it more like the syllabus?”

Nick peeled off the top sheet and presented it to Nate, letting the small stack of papers sit on the table. A few minutes passed as they read and Ellie hovered until Nick pointed to a spare chair silently and she sat. 

He tried his best to focus solely on the article, but around the edges, the memory of the night before snuck in: there was the smell of antiseptic and bleach still present in the apartment, the front door precariously snugged into the doorframe, his lack of a prosthetic, his aching shoulder and skull.... The list kept going, and ended at an emergency therapy appointment in the afternoon.

He read the entire thing, signed, and set aside his glasses. Ellie, bless her, was waiting with a notepad and a pen for his commentary. “It's a nice place to start,” he said carefully. “But listen. All we can do is try to be kind, and honest, and not selfish. And that's just a regular relationship, but with one extra person.”

“We should probably talk a little more about it than that,” said Nate, putting aside the last sheet. 

“I thought I'd make notes about what we each expect,” said Ellie in a small voice. 

“How about we try something somewhere inbetween 'Everybody be nice' and 'I made a series of flash cards to help prepare for the polyamory pop quiz,'” said Nate. “Like...” he shuffled the papers. “STIs. And, I dunno, do we all date together? Do we tag team this shit? And last night aside, what are the, uh, sleeping arrangements?”

Ellie colored. Nate re-collated the papers again. And Nick sighed. “I'm clean; I think we should go out as a group and one-on-one; and are you asking about sex or actual sleeping?”

“I'm clean, too, got my papers from the vet to prove it; I agree; and yes, both.” He nudged Ellie with his elbow.

She shrunk down in her chair. “I don't know. I got tested before Connor. He said he did, too, and at the time I trusted him. I went a week ago for the tests, and I'm waiting to hear back on the last few, but the big scary ones are ok. So. Um. As far as the group vs singles, I agree, though I'd rather do more group dates? But that's mainly because I don't want anybody to feel left out. And, uhm. I feel kind of the same about the sleeping/sex question.”

Nick put his glasses back on just to have something to do. “Welp, that's all cleared up, I guess. Better do something about that damn door.”

“Oh my god, yes,” said Ellie.

“Gotta get a new cell phone,” said Nate.

“Therapist,” said Nick, “and a call to Jackie to let him know I'm ok and make sure we're not all going to be arrested.”

“I'm really proud of us for having this chat,” said Ellie. “Look at us, adulting.”

And with that, they fled in three separate directions.

 

* * * * *

 

Therapists, Nick was pretty sure, weren't supposed to pinch the bridge of their nose when you told them something they didn't want to hear. It seemed like a breach of professional... not ethics, but courtesy maybe? 

“I liked it better when you pretended to be really neutral about the things I told you,” he said. “Aren't therapists supposed to be non judgemental?”

“I've always had a bad poker face,” she said, and she was deadpan enough now. “But, listen: There are a couple of factors that are troublesome to me here, and we're going to touch on them briefly and go back to the shooting. One, at least, is tied into what happened, alright?”

“Shoot,” he said, and managed not to wince at the choice of words. 

“Sooo. I'm worried a bit that you're leaping into this without thinking things through more clearly than that you like both of them. I'm not even telling you not to do this, merely to tread carefully. This has the potential to go wrong in a few ways that a typical monogamous relationship doesn't. There are jealousy issues to consider, most especially. You live with one of them and not the other. Is that alone enough to make Nate feel left out from the start? Will it seem to him that you have a full-fledged relationship with Ellie and not with him?”

“Huh,” he said. His poker face was top notch, he thought. 

“Furthermore, and this ties back into the shooting: are you certain you aren't looking for someone to take care of? Or that they in turn, are looking to _be_ taken care of? You have a pair of people who appear to have experienced some trauma – a military veteran and a domestic abuse victim. And from their point of view, they've found an older man who doesn't seem averse to taking charge. You told each of them what to do within a matter of minutes, and they did it. There's nothing intrisically wrong with taking care of someone or being taken care of, but make sure you don't end up in a situation of co-dependence, or enabling them to release responsibility for their own lives. And I could be totally wrong, Nick. You don't know much about Nate yet, by your own admission. But don't become the person who fixes their lives.”

He opened his mouth, and nothing came out. 

“I think you have,” she said, not unkindly, “a genuine desire to help. You've been a police officer. You cared for Jenny as she died. But you also have a tendancy to lose yourself in your work. Don't let them be your work. _You_ are your work right now. Remember that, okay?”

“You said this... this tied into the shooting.”

“Sure,” she said, and there it was, that moment where she shot straight for the heart. “You tried to protect them. But you could have protected all three of you by going to a hotel and disappearing. Hell. You could have disappeared by going to Nate's place. But you didn't – you stood your ground.”

“I prefer confrontation to hiding,” he said, defensive.

“Did it occur to you to run?” she asked. 

“No,” he said, and even to his ears, the sound was clipped. 

“Interesting. Let's talk about that.”

 

* * * * *

He walked out of Isabel's office feeling wrung-out, and Sausage clung close. Isabel was his third therapist including the one at the hospital, and was the first he didn't feel like was blowing smoke up his ass. The other two had been too... squishy, too touchy-feely, and he hadn't gotten along with either. But Isabel was so blunt that he occasionally wondered whether he could convince her to blow just a little smoke. Maybe a fruit basket, or a cake would do the trick. He tried to imagine telling Ellie he needed her to make a cake so his therapist would go easy on him, and the expression Imaginary Ellie gave him was beyond belief. 

The thought was pleasing enough to take him all the way back to his apartment in a better mood, and he was in Candler Beans before his improved mood faded. One of the other baristas—Paige, who he didn't know terribly well—was talking to Ellie in a corner behind the counter, and Ellie's body language told all: shoulders tight, lips thinned out, arms flat against her sides. Ellie looked cornered. 

Sausage tensed. 

“Ellie! Paige!” he boomed, and both jumped. “How's business been this afternoon?” He dropped Sausage's leash and reached for his wallet. “Was that too loud?” he asked. “Sorry, ladies. My ears are still ringing from last night.” He leaned in close to Paige, and the dark-haired girl shrank back. “You heard I had to shoot a man for threatening Ellie, huh?” And in the same breath he said “Double affogato with three shots of espresso, a caramel drizzle, half salted, half-nonsalted, dairy-free whip add sprinkles and a large half almond milk, one quarter one per cent, one quarter soy latte heated to 135, no foam, double crema, with one packet of sugar in the raw, 1 splenda, and one sugar cube, split the shots decaf and caf down the middle, wave a bottle of vanilla syrup at it gently and if there's a speck of cinnamon in it drop it directly into the trash and start again. Got it?”

“Ye....eeesss?” said Paige, the marker in her hand frozen over the cup, and fear in her eyes. 

“Good woman.” He laid a twenty down on the counter and said “You can bring me the change with the order.” 

She whimpered in response.

Meanwhile, Ellie had escaped to the back and taken off her apron. She flashed a look at Nick that was almost reproachful, then called, “Clocking out for the day!” to Paige and greeted Nick with a kiss on the cheek. “How was it?” she whispered in his ear over the _whzzzz!_ of some machine.

“It went...okay. Apparently I'm to be wary of trying to rescue you two and should just rescue myself. I disagreed.”

She pulled a face. “I don't know if it was necessary for you to rescue me just now, but it sure was fun.” Her voice dropped again. “You know we don't serve affogato, right?”

“Does Paige know that?”

“I'm not sure she knows what one is,” said Ellie. She led him by the arm to a table and sat him down firmly. “She wanted to know allll the details, she said. And she was pretty ghoulish about it, asked what it was like to see a man get shot, to hurt someone I'd been intimate with. Gross.” She searched his face. “Are you okay? Like, did the counseling session go too badly?”

He heard what she wasn't asking. _Did she convince you we're a bad idea?_

“It wasn't too bad. She's skeptical of the whole thing, I think. But she mainly seemed concerned. She did say she was glad I'm getting out of the apartment again, glad I'm interacting with people more than just to say good morning when I pick up my groceries.”

“Oh,” she said. “Good.” 

But there was something more there, something sad hiding in those two words. “What's on your mind, doll?”

“I just hate to think of you like that. Shut off. Lonely. You're too good a man to be a shut-in.” She patted his arm, and gave him a little smile that seemed the slightest bit wobbly to Nick. “I've been thinking. I feel like the first few dates should be all three of us. Then you and Nate, then me and Nate, then me and you. Because we live together, so I feel like it's easier for us to spend time together. So you and Nate should spend some time together and really get to bond, and I should spend a little time with Nate and really catch up. Before all this we hadn't seen each other in person much since he was in college. Like, we kept up with each other and chatted online, but...” She leaned in close. “I had a real crush on him in high school, you know.”

“I didn't know that. Tell me?” he said. How long had their hands been intertwined? How long had he been watching the deep chocolate tint on her lips as they moved, and could he wait until they were alone to kiss those lips? 

“Oh yeah. He was so all-things-to-all-people. He was that kid who did everything. He was on the homecoming court, and in all these clubs and on the football team. He was probably on twenty different pages of the senior yearbook. And he somehow had time to be nice to me. I thought he might be the sweetest human I'd ever met. We were in a couple of clubs together – Spanish Club and Literary Team. I made empanadillas with my own sofrito mix. And I nearly died when he thought they were amazing, and kept hounding me for the recipe.” She smiled. “I didn't give it to him. I was an insecure little ninth grader, and I was afraid if I gave him what he wanted, he'd lose interest in me.”

He found himself unable to imagine losing interest in Ellie. Certainly not over empanadillas, whatever those were. Couldn't imagine not wanting to touch that smooth skin, to kiss those amazing lips, to spend his days just listening to her talk. 

“What?” she asked. 

“Hmm? Oh. Just thinking. About you.” In one of those odd moments that he had from time to time, he started to move his right hand toward her face to cup that cheek, and was brought up short by reality: there was no right hand, and nobody, not even someone as sweet as Ellie, was going to want to be caressed by a stub. 

He kept his face still, but her head tilted, and he knew she saw something there, some sign of distress or flicker of regret. But she didn't address it if she did. Instead, she leaned across the table and kissed him, a brush of lips that deepened into something that nipped and tugged at his lower lip with the barest hint of teeth, sending pure electricity through his body. 

He opened his eyes as she pulled away from the kiss, and for a brief moment, he felt like the old Nick, the Nick who knew how to talk to people, whose self-confidence was an easy, unconscious thing. It seemed impossible that he'd ever been that young, had lacked the crippling self-awareness that had plagued him ever since he was shot (and, if he's being honest, losing Jenny killed something in him even before that). He felt _alive_. 

“Let's go,” he said on impulse. “Let's go upstairs.”

“If we go upstairs,” she said, still close enough for her breath to tickle against his face, “I'm gonna jump your bones. And Nate--”

He growled his irritation, and she jumped, then reached out to soothe her hand against his cheek. “How about a movie?” she asked. “Quiet theater. Air conditioned. Light necking seems okay, but other than that we'll have to mind our P's and Q's.”

_Jesus_ , he thought. _How in hell are we going to make it through the weekend before Nate comes back?_

They slipped out of Chandler Beans arm-in-arm, just as an enormously complicated coffee appeared at the end of the bar, forgotten and loved by neither customer nor barista. 

 

* * * * *

 

They saw seven movies by the end of the weekend. A superhero flick twice. An IMAX film at the museum that was about cave diving. Two summer blockbusters that had made their way to a second run theater. An art film that mystified both of them. A Hitchcock movie. 

It started with a great deal of hand-holding. With arms slung casually around the other one's shoulder. With brief kisses. And by the time Hitchcock rolled around, they were making out through even the best scenes (much to the irritation of the woman behind them, who had repeatedly bumped their heads with her behemoth of a purse). 

So it was with some relief that Nick answered his phone Sunday evening when Nate's picture (the smoldering selfie he'd sent him before the apartment date) showed up on the screen.

“How was the show, doll?” he asked. It wasn't what he wanted to know. Well. He did, but he really wanted to ask how soon he could be sitting in Nick's lap.

“It was good, actually. Made back my money with plenty left over for some of the cold weather months.” 

“Good, good. Glad to hear it went well. How soon--” he began at the same time Nate spoke. 

“Does Ellie work tomorr- Hm.” There was a shared moment of awkward chuckles.

“I've gotta tell you,” said Nick. “Ellie and I talked, thought it would be good for all of us to have a few dates before we started doing singles dates. And then she and I went to the movies all weekend because it was the only thing we could figure out to keep our hands more or less off each other. And even then, we were like a couple of teenagers in the back of the theater.”

“Oh?” Nate's voice dropped just a shade, became a little deeper, a little huskier. “Anything get any racier than that?”

“Nope,” said Nick, faux-casual. “Just necking. We're trying to wait for you. Last thing we want is for anyone to feel left out.”

Nate chuckled. “Proud of y'all. And- I appreciate it. I genuinely do. I just--”

“You just what?”

“I just wish I could be there now. I'm an hour out of Atlanta, still, and nobody wants me the way I smell right now.”

“How's that,” asked Nick, still striving for a casual tone of voice and failing. 

“Like... Sweat, mainly. Woodsmoke from the smoker next to my tent. And, I guess, like a forge? Sort of like hot iron and charcoal.”

He made a small sound deep in his throat. “It's not,” he said carefully, “that I'm commanding you to come over. I'm just saying that _you have my attention_.”

Nate swallowed audibly, then groaned. “I'm pretty tired...” Then a pause, and Nick could practically hear an idea form. “Can you put El on the phone?”

“Sure.” Brow furrowed, he ambled down the hallway. With the phone tucked against his shoulder, he rapped on Ellie's door. She appeared after a few seconds, a towel wrapped around her hair from her shower. He held the phone out to her, and was pleased to see her face light up when she heard who was on the line. 

“I'm good! Did Nick tell you we went to a bunch of movies? Mm-hmm. Trying to make it through all the hours I'm not at work. Idle hands, right?” She listened for a few moments and a smile grew on her face. She made a few pleased sounds of agreement, and finally said, “that seems more than fair. Tomorrow? I'm off at four. That sounds... perfect. Okay. See you then.” She held the phone out to Nick. “Here you go. Have fun.” And with that her door closed with a gentle click. 

“Nate?” he said. “What was all that about?”

“Ohhh,” said Nate. “Nothing. Hey. I'm hitting some traffic north of the city. Can I call you back when I get home?”

“Sure,” he said. “Drive safe, doll.”

He puttered around the apartment for the next hour, tidying things that didn't need cleaning, reading five pages of a book before realizing nothing about the story was sticking, and finally turning on the television before the news convinced him he'd be happier without it. Whatever Nate had planned was eating at him. Even before he'd become a police officer, Nick hadn't been a man who tolerated secrets well.

So when the phone finally rang, he answered it before it had a chance to ring twice, not giving a damn if that made him seem desperate. “Hey again,” he said.

“So...” said Nate in a voice that, if pressed, Nick would describe as just missing the mark of sultry and straying into absurd. “What're you wearing?”

“Uh,” said Nick. “Pants and a tee?”

“Not for long,” said Nate. 

“Oh?” said Nick. Then, “ _Oh_.” He stood from the couch and made his way to his bedroom, closing the door behind him. “This what you were talking to Ellie about?”

“Among other things,” said Nate. “Nick? Do something for me?”

“Hmm?” he said, sitting on the edge of the bed. “What's that?”

“Take the shirt off.” 

He did his best to hold onto the phone while pulling his shirt over his head. “Done,” he said as the shirt dropped to the ground in a rustle of cloth. “What're you wearing?” he asked. 

“Oh, you know. Leather blacksmithing apron. Jeans. Nothing else.”

“Hot damn,” said Nick, laying back with a groan. He pulled a long breath, and heard Nate's breath hitch in return. “Wanna watch you work one day, doll. See you work up a sweat, you know. Hammering things.”

“Holy crap I've made a good decision,” said Nate, sounding pleased as could be. “I don't normally work barefoot for safety reasons, but I'll skip the heavy black boots when you come over, if you want.”

“Could be an interesting change of pace for me,” said Nick. “Wear the boots. But not now. Want you to reach under that apron and cup yourself for me. Can you do that? Give things a little squeeze?”

“You'd have to tie me down to keep me from doing that,” said Nate with a groan. 

“I can arrange that,” growled Nick. 

“Holy. Fuck.” Nate's breath caught. “You mean it? Please say you're into ropes and things.” 

“Can't say I've got a lot of experience with ropes,” said Nick. “But I did make a career of putting people in handcuffs. I'm confident I can figure this rope situation out.” His hand started to wander, to toy with the button of his slacks. “Gonna unbutton for you now, alright?”

“Please,” breathed Nate. “Please do. Unzip while you're at it. Boxers? Briefs?”

“Boxer briefs,” said Nick. “You?” 

“Told you,” said Nate. “Just jeans and the leather apron. Top or bottom?”

“Switch,” said Nick. “In my distant college days. Been a while.”

The breathiness disappeared from Nate's voice, and Nick heard a creak of bedsprings. “You haven't been with a man since college?”

“Mmm,” said Nick. “Not seriously. A few dates here and there. But I had several long term relationships with women in a row. Relax,” he said. “I'm not going to spit out your cock and have a sudden realization the minute we end up in bed. Now. Top or bottom?”

“Flexible,” said Nate. “I say the first time we declare a thumb war and fight for first pick.”

“I thought oiled-up Greco-Roman wrestling was the traditional way to decide who was on top? I mean if you want to avoid too much 'After you!' and 'No, I insist, after you!'” 

“Too messy for an apartment. Not that I'm against it in theory. I would oiled-up-wrestle you any time,” Nate said with a snicker. The sound trailed off. “Kick off your pants. God, I wish I weren't too tired to make it to your place. I want to sit across your lap and grind my ass against you. With my clothes on first; wanna feel you hard against me.”

“Plenty hard for you now, doll. Could drive a damn nail.” He wrapped his hand around his cock and groaned. 

“ _Holy shit_ ,” said Nate. “My god. That sound. That _voice_. You're killing me. I can't wait to get out of work tomorrow and drive over. Wanna feel you up. Want to bite your shoulder and wrap my hand around you. Don't come yet,” he said. “Wanna make it last.” 

“We're breaking a dry spell, here,” said Nick. “Can't promise anything.”

“Hm,” said Nate. “Better deploy the second half of my plan, then.”

His hand stilled. “Nate,” he said. “What plan?”

In the background, the _bloop!_ of a facebook message sounded off. And a moment later, he heard a message across the hall. “The other thing I talked to Ellie about,” said Nate. “I figure better to break a dry spell now and shake some of your nerves.” He made a kissy noise into the phone. “Thank me later.” And with that the phone clicked off.

There was a tap at the door. “Nick?” called Ellie. “Uh. Can I come in?”

He stared at the door, baffled at how quickly the situation had changed. “Er,” he said, and pulled his pants back on, though he didn't button them. “Sure, doll.”

Her hair hung around her shoulders and down to her breasts in damp waves, and she wore no makeup. Her camisole and panties showed off more tattoos than just the roses – there were cherries on her hip, just visible under the arc of the panties. On the other side there was a plate of brightly colored cupcakes and a banner that read “Add It To My Hips.” The peaks of her breasts made the pale blue fabric of the cami float away from her midriff, and somehow it added to the surreal quality of it all. 

“Heya, Nicky,” she said, and pulled the door shut behind her. Despite having agreed to the plan Nate had cooked up, she didn't look terribly sure of herself, which made him feel a shade better. 

“Doll,” he said, by way of a greeting, and patted the bed next to him. She took a seat, but left her hands in her lap with her elbows drawn in tightly. “Nate says we should break my dry spell. And while I'm certainly interested, there's something off-putting about being given permission to screw.”

“Tell me about it,” she said. “I was all, 'oooh, sexy!' when he said it, but the longer I had to think about it, the more nervous I got. I ended up pacing and changing clothes like three times—which, you know, maybe next time for the cute negligee, but this turns out to be the halfway point between the sexy clothes and wearing my flannel pajamas.”

“These aren't your sexy clothes?” he blurted, then waved the question away. “You, ah... smell nice.”

She nodded, accepting the compliment without quite hearing it, so he tried again. “Any other tattoos?”

She colored. “Two more.” She laid back, and lifted the hem of her shirt to just under her breast. Between breast and panty stretched a detailed mermaid, and the waves around her spelled _Hello, Sailor._ There was something predatory in the mermaid's face, he decided. Something otherworldly, and vicious. He looked up at Ellie's face raising an eyebrow, and her color grew deeper. “Uhm. It's possible I thought of myself as kind of a maneater in college.”

“Well, well,” he said. “And the last one?”

“You'll find it soon enough,” she said. 

“I think I like her,” he said. “She looks like a friendly gal.”

“Oh my god,” she said. “That's Ellie-level bad judgement in significant others, there.” She rolled onto her side and grinned at him. “Present company excepted, of course.” Her fingers waggled in his face, and he kissed the tips, making her giggle.

“Present company, huh? What about Nate, then?” She pressed her fingers to his lips, and he nipped at them, and this time the giggle became a gasp.

“Jury's out, depending on how Cyrano's plan for tonight goes.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Which one of us is Roxanne, and which one is Christian?”

“Oh my god,” she said for the second time in as many minutes. “Well-read men have special admittance to deep parts of my English-major heart. 'Speak again, bright angel.'”

“He's Cyrano, you're Romeo...” he shook his head. “Here I am, a rude Benedict.”

Her hand on his shoulder pressed him back onto the bed, and she threw a leg over to straddle him. “I'd take a thousand Benedicts over a self-hating Cyrano or a proud Romeo.”

“'Rich she shall be, that's certain; wise, or I'll none,'” he quoted, struggling to remember the rest. Her hips began to move, and Mrs. Akins' tenth grade English recitations abruptly came back to him in a moment of sheer need. “'Virtuous, or I'll never cheapen her; fair, or I'll never look on her--'' In some ideal world, he might have reached up and caressed her cheek, or perhaps drawn her down into a kiss. Instead, he managed a noise somewhere between a groan and a whimper as strong thighs tightened around him and _squeezed_.

“I'm sorry,” she said, prim and cool as though chocolate wouldn't melt in that lovely mouth. “You were saying?”

“'Mild,'” he gasped, “'Or come not near me; noble, or not I for an angel; of good discourse, an excellent musician, and her hair shall be of what color it please God.'” And oh, Christ, he hardly got those last few words out as her mint-green nails trailed down his chest in meandering waves, her fingers rolling gentle whorls and crests along his skin. 

It was _good_. He wanted to lay back and close his eyes and enjoy the sensation. He wanted to stare her right the eyes and see them sparkle and shine with mischief. In the end he let his eyes roll back for a moment during a long, slow exhale. 

“I only just realized,” she said, “that it's always secretly been my deepest fantasy to have a man quote Shakespeare to me while I tried to make him crazy.” 

“Happy to be of service,” he said, and holy hell, was she getting more aggressive with those nails or was it his imagination? Whatever the answer, he was for it. He arched up against her, and she gave a happy little squeak, and settled that beautiful behind just _there_ and “fuck,” he breathed. 

She bent double with all the grace and agility she'd shown on the dance floor, and the kiss she planted on him was nothing like the urgent making out in the back of the movies. It was premeditated, it was the kind of kiss a woman deployed specifically to drive a man crazy. 

It goddamn worked, too. 

He surged up as she drew away, chasing those lips with his own, and she laughed as she pressed him back down with the tips of those nails pressed against his chest. Was it coincidence she had those nails right over his heart, as if to pluck it out? It had to be. 

He looked into wickedly narrowed eyes, and changed his mind. Nothing she did was coincidence, not now that she really had her teeth into this. Her smile was a knife-edge, and he pressed his hand against that evilly smiling mermaid under her camisole. _Hello Sailor_ indeed. 

His hand traveled upward, cupping the as-yet unseen breast and running his thumb over her nipple, a brush first, then a pinch and a roll, and what he really wanted was to get on top of her, to strip that flimsy shirt away and kiss those breasts, to take one in his mouth and cover the other with his hand, to obey the caveman-urge to cover her body with his, to possess her in a way one of the waves of feminism probably had something grim to say about but who cared, people liked what they liked in bed, and--

She reached between them, taking him in hand, and this was, as it turned out, an awfully good plan too. Her grip was firm and sure, and she was—thank god—careful with those nails. 

“El. Ellie. I need--”

“Mmm?” Her lips pursed as she made a soft sound in answer, and it was a damn challenge was what it was, a challenge to get his words out in more than fragmentary groupings. 

“You aren't nearly naked enough,” he managed. “Neither am I.”

She laughed, and the sound didn't even exist in the same continent as those evil little smiles and beautiful undulations. It was a happy sound, and as much as he was enjoying the maneater routine—and he really, _really_ was—that note of pure joy was a thousand times better. 

A little wink was his answer, a little wink and a blue camisole flung across the room with a flutter. “Doll,” he said. And that was all. But it seemed to her to be more than enough. She smiled again, happy, and scooted off him, and the loss of her weight and warmth was terrible. 

She did a little shimmy, and the cute little panties came off next, puddling around her feet, a bare wisp of fabric. Then she turned, and pointed at her backside, and he laughed when he saw a tattooed pair of ruby-red lips. 

“Again, college me was the very cleverest person who ever clevered,” she said more or less at the same time he said, “Don't mind if I do.” She was still looking over her shoulder at him when he sat up and pressed his own lips against the tattoo. 

“I take back the sarcasm. College me was _brilliant_.” She gave a little gasp as his lips traveled upward, nibbling a path to the small of her back and leaving a damp kiss just so he could blow cool air against it. She shuddered, and turned before he could do quite what he wanted, and get a good grip on her hip. 

“Pants,” she said, grabbing the edges of them. He gave her a little _by all means_ gesture and she tugged, freeing him completely. “ _Okay_ ,” she said. It sounded... appreciative to him, or was that just wishful thinking?

He rolled, grabbed a condom out of his bedside table, and had it on with perhaps a shade more trouble than the task had been with two hands, but hell, what wasn't more trouble these days? Then she was on top of him again, running soft hands across territory she'd already claimed with her nails, bending over him so she could kiss him, this time with sincerity, and with a push he was inside her. She rode him, and they quickly found a rhythm and just as quickly ruined it when he pressed a thumb against her clit, rubbing little circles. She shuddered above him, biting one of her knuckles in a strange moment of _too much_ or perhaps just _more_. 

She was beautiful. The smile, the rumpled, half-dry hair, and okay, yes, the breasts that bounced as her body rose and fell. He wasn't going to last. There was no way, not like this, not after so long. But the movement of her body became erratic, and he wouldn't have to last much longer, he realized. She was close already, close enough that her hips jerked out of time and she nearly buckled forward. He gave her his bad arm, and she grabbed it for support, and then she was writhing against him, nearly falling forward despite his best efforts, and her muscles tightened around him and he felt the pulses of her orgasm close around him. She batted at his hand on her clit with her free hand, and he let it fall away, rubbing small circles on her thigh as she came down from her orgasm, the tight pulses coming further and further apart. She slumped a little, and didn't resist when he rolled them, loosing penetration for just a moment as they rearranged themselves, and then he was atop her. 

This time, he got his mouth onto that beautiful breast, making her cry out, this time he buried his face in her neck, kissing and nipping as he thrust. She was more vocal like this, less tightly in control, and he adored her for it, for feeling comfortable enough to not have to control the experience. Was it preference, the way she'd approached him, or a way to be less nervous, a matter of control? The thought floated across an otherwise pretty clear mind, an insight in a field of hormones and endorphins and oxytocin. He was close, close, and she propped up on her elbows, and cried her pleasure against his lips and he was undone. “Ellie, Ellie, _Ellie_ ,” he growled. 

When he gathered his senses, he was sprawled to the side, a leg and an arm still flopped on top of her as she trailed a gentle hand up and down his side. 

“God, you're beautiful,” he said, and his voice was deeper, raspier even than usual. “You're perfect.”

She lifted a slow arm, and pressed two fingers against the pulse in her neck. “Just checking that I'm not dead,” she said when he made an inquisitive sound. “Because, um. Wow.”

She laughed, and it was infectious, a silly thing. He didn't have the energy for it right now, but laughed anyway, helpless to stop himself because Ellie was... well, Ellie. The laughter trailed off but for occasional aftershocks, and their gazes met for an instant too long. She broke the gaze first, but he would have soon because sometimes it was too early for the raw truth of a situation. They weren't ready to say it; neither of them quite dared, but there it was for both of them to see.

There were all the usual things after that: gentle, teasing touches as they got cleaned up and ready for bed, but somehow better. Playful. A quick swat to the ass, a cupped breast, but the truth was they couldn't keep their hands off each other. She hung an arm around him while he took his medication. He rested his chin on top of her head while she sent a one word message to Nate: _Whoa_. 

Sausage reappeared from wherever he'd discretely disappeared to, a warm and steady curl of fur at the foot of the bed, and they both laughed when they discovered they'd settled their feet against the dog's back. 

The curve of her body was perfect against his. If some mathematician wanted to map the dimensions of happiness, it was right here in the arc of her back and bend of her knees, and for the first time in years, Nick Valentine fell asleep content, happy, and in love.

**Author's Note:**

> I know nothing about Boston how about some Atlanta do you like Atlanta? I do.
> 
> Also, the term "Fall out" is Southern for passing out. "I dunno what happened! He got real pale and then he just fell out!" Can you hear me being pleased for having a chance to sneak in the word fallout?


End file.
